


Another Warden's Fall

by 00Wandering_Ghost00



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempt at Humor, Canonical Character Death, Character Development, Circle of Magi, Complex story-concept, Did I mention it's a First Draft, Dragon Age Headcanons, Drama, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, Family Issues, Good old-fashioned betrayal, Hero Becomes the Villain, I really do, I suck at tagging, I'm trying, It's not that bad as I make it look, Lore-Friendly most of the time, M/M, Major Character Injury, Major character death - Freeform, Not All Mages!, Not All Templars!, Not Beta Read, Oh gosh-darnit I'll rewrite the whole thing once I'm done, Please notice the Tragedy tag it's there for a reason, Real-world References, Revolution, Sexual Content, Tragedy/Comedy, Unapologetic Kitsch, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships (between Anders and Amell mostly), Well mine mostly, alternate endings, don't blame me, fall of a hero, first draft, some fluff here and there, some smut, there will be blood - Freeform, varying quality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2019-11-04 06:49:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 70,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17893568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/00Wandering_Ghost00/pseuds/00Wandering_Ghost00
Summary: Graeme Amell has grown from a doomed pawn in the Circle to be the reluctant Hero of Ferelden, then took on the responsibility of rebuilding Vigil's Keep and leading the remaining Grey Wardens. And if talking darkspawn and conspiring nobles wouldn't be enough, he has to face treason among his own ranks. Amell becomes a runaway apostate, searching for purpose and a place for himself, and that is how he finds out about distant relatives of his living in Kirkwall. By travelling there, Amell finds more than family and a former lover thought to be dead. He finds a cause he can fight for.In short: A story of love, betrayal and revolution before and during the mage-templar war.Updates are infrequent due to my work schedule.





	1. Like Rats in the Walls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: Unhealthy environment and harsh treatment of children.
> 
> Also a warning (though I don't know if it counts as "triggering" for anyone): I went with the unofficial "headcanon" that Karl was Anders' teacher, and at least ten years older than him (instead of the "few years older" described in canon), and some form of attraction is discussed in the chapter. (Nothing - I repeat, NOTHING - happens. Yet.) Basically, it's just teen Anders pining after his instructor, whom he finds cute.

_“In times of turmoil, in times like these_

_Beliefs contagious, spreading disease_

_This wretched mischief is now coursing through your souls_

_Never to let go, never to let go - Them rats!_

_Into your sanctum, you let them in_

_Now all your loved ones and all your kin_

_Will suffer punishments beneath the wrath of God_

_Never to forgive, never to forgive... - “Rats”- Ghost_

 

A slap with an iron gauntlet landed on his face, ending his sobbing and calling for his mother. “Shut up, you brat!” one of the armoured men grunted. He could still see her, standing on the road, her honey-blonde hair flowing in the cold wind. He never forgot that picture. He turned his head back to the pillow made by Mother. The only thing these people let him keep from home. He felt the shackles tearing into his wrists with every bump on the road, and every stone the cart went over. He couldn’t stop crying. Then after a long, long ride, they reached the lake. As the ferryman took the three Templars and him over to the enormous tower that seemed to pierce the moon, he swore to himself that he will not stay here. He will be strong for Mother, and find his way back to her. He attempted the first escape nearly after a month. He spoke to nobody, never told them his name either. It didn’t matter. All that mattered to him was to get back home; he didn’t want to make friends...Until _he_ came along.

 

“Hello there! What’s your name? I’m Graeme... But the others are just calling me on my family name...” the annoying little blackhead wouldn’t stop bothering him no matter what. “Hey, Amell! Stop wasting time, he’s mute!” an older apprentice called over to them. The smaller child stubbornly turned away from him, back to the blond boy. “It’s okay. You can talk to me if you want.” Amber eyes darted towards him suspiciously. The blue ones of the smaller boy looked into them with curiosity and something else... acceptance. The blond turned away. He clutched his pillow and leaned to the wall. He was only waiting for the moment he could run away again. The annoying little mockingbird – for he really resembled one with his black hair and endless, inane chirping – kept on returning. Every. Day. And he kept on asking questions. “Where are you from? I’m from Kirkwall. They say it’s pretty far away from here.” and “You seem to love that pillow. I have a stuffed mabari. Wanna see it?” And the damned little goblin did have a toy mabari. And he was handing it over. For a moment, the blond felt like throwing the blighted thing to the end of the dorm room, and see if Little Mockingbird fetches it like the puppy he was. But then in the end, he didn’t throw the toy. Two of the instructors walked in the dorm room, and one of them nudged the other as they were passing the two little boys by. “Oh look, Amell and The Ander are playing together!” the other mage’s features softened. “Thank Andraste, I was afraid for that boy. He wanted to run away to find his mother, and haven’t spoken a word since the Templars caught him and brought him back.” as the two adults disappeared behind the closing door, the blond boy put the toy mabari down, and clutched his pillow even tighter. “You wanted to see your mommy?” Amell asked sadly. The pair of amber eyes turned at him filled with tears. “I just want to go home...” the blond finally spoke. His voice was low and hoarse from the months long silence. Amell scooted closer and hugged him out of the blue. “I want to go home too.”

 

He became his shadow. No matter how annoyed Anders became with the younger boy persistently following him around, Amell began to grow on him. And he grew on the instructors as well, for he had a natural talent at Primal and Creation spells. He got praised by the Enchanters for his progress, and as time went by, his daily visits to Anders’ corner of the dorm room began to decline in frequency. After spending nearly a whole year together, Anders felt like he almost missed him. Almost. 

 

Amell on the other hand, missed his friend dearly. He got tired of the boring and routine lessons quickly, sometimes amusing himself by casting harmless spells such as light wisps or shooting tiny flames across his fingers. He got so used to it that when he got angered or anxious, they suddenly appeared all over his body. Sometimes even accompanied by small lightning bolts. It was a sign of failure, yet many other apprentices thought him to be “cool” after it happened for the first time. Such an apprentice was a boy two years Amell’s junior, named Jowan. He was a grey little mouse with nearly the same long dark hair that Amell had. If there were such a thing permitted as siblings in the same Circle, anyone would assume they were brothers by looking at them. They had their differences as well, for Amell – thanks to Anders’ influence – was talkative, friendly and sometimes obnoxious, while Jowan was shy, withdrawn and had problems with focusing and learning. It wasn’t because he was stupid, though he was being told so by Templars and Enchanters alike. Once he was so terrified of a test that he fled the classroom after the instructor asked him a question. Amell answered in his stead and went right after his friend, knowing very well that both of them will scrape the floor or help the Tranquil with cleaning the dishes for at least a week as punishment for this transgression.

“Jowan, wait up!” Amell called after the other boy as loud as he dared, and when he finally caught up with him, he grabbed the too-big sleeve of Jowan’s robe and dragged him into the unused storage room he always sneaked into with Anders. Only when the door was firmly shut behind them, did he realize that Jowan was crying. “What’s wrong?” Amell asked, feeling worried. “I don’t understand.” Jowan sniffled. “Whatever the instructors say I don’t understand it.” He shook his head and stifled a sob. “I’m so stupid. I’m a failure.” “No. You aren’t.” Amell reached out and pulled Jowan into a hug as he did many times again later. “You’re just scared of Enchanter Uldred. Me too.”

From that day on, Amell spent a lot of his already scarce free time helping Jowan learn. He wrote notes for him, shortened to a neat and easily understandable length, but even with his help, Jowan barely managed to pass his tests.

 

In the meantime, Anders ran away and got caught again at least twice before stopping with the attempts for a while. He studied under a new instructor and he found that he enjoys his lessons far too much to pay attention to something else… well, not counting the young Enchanter himself, who began to occupy much of his downtime fantasies. His next big escape happened not far from his 14th birthday. He was planning it for months and barely listened to Amell whenever he came and chattered about his boring daily routine. The First Enchanter had put him on laundry duty as a punishment for his last attempt, and he was secretly snatching away underwear from everyone, one at a time to tie them together into a makeshift rope. Anders was calculating, measuring much needed time and possible escape routes, tried to predict the patrolling Templars, where they will go and when will be a blank hole between two companies, enabling him to reach the possible exit. He spent so much time and effort on planning his escapes that he was falling behind on his arcane studies. Amell said he was worried, because he knew that apprentices who weren’t talented enough or didn’t have high grades were turned Tranquil. Anders shooed him away but deep inside he was afraid of that possibility as well. He had to get away from this hell the sooner the better. The Templars caught him a week later near Redcliffe. 

 

Amell was extremely happy to see Anders again, despite the bruises and floor-scraping he had to do. They spent a little time together and the older boy resigned himself to stay and listen to the younger one’s chattering. Amell just lost a few of his milk-teeth and was quite a funny sight when he flashed a gappy grin at Anders. “Is it true that you swam through Lake Calenhad all the way to Redcliffe?” Amell asked with wide eyes, awe written on his face. “No, I was walking. For a long while actually.” Anders answered while only paying half-attention. “What is it like?” The child kept on prodding. “Boring.” Anders sighed. “Trees and trees and all kinds of forest animals… dirty, filthy beasts.” Amell hummed and made a serious face. Anders could barely contain his laugh looking at him. “I’d want to see a forest animal.” Amell looked up at him again. “I never saw one.” “They aren’t fun, believe me. They have fleas, and they more than willing to bite your head off.” Amell frowned and looked at the floor but only for a minute before he began talking again. “Some men came last week. One of them had a hawk. It was awesome! This big” – he showed with spreading his arms “And it made that loud screeching sound” he tried to demonstrate, but the squawks he made were rather hilarious than accurate. Anders couldn’t take it anymore, and burst out laughing. He only stopped when Amell wrapped his little arms around him and said “I missed you.” For a moment, Anders felt a pang of guilt in his heart. But deep inside he knew some sacrifices should be made for a greater purpose. He ceased his escape attempts for nearly a whole year before sneaking out of the tower again, and getting caught, beaten and forced to do the worst and most humiliating chores possible. He didn’t mind. At least when he was confined in the Circle tower, he had Karl.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. Shockingly short compared to the length of the original upload, but fret not! Notes!
> 
> Also, a friendly reminder despite it being in the tags: This is the first draft of the story, and right now I don't have neither the capacity nor free time to revise and/or rewrite the crappy parts (namely the bigger part) of the fic. I plan to do so, but first I want it to be "out", editing and hating it even more and editing again will only come after I'm done writing it entirely.
> 
> \- Some other notes on timeline and continuity: I went with Anders and Amell having a 5 years age difference. First 5-6 or so chapters span over the Origin story and the "Broken Circle" quest from Origins. Because I had ideas, and I don't want to write them into a separate fic.
> 
> \- I also deleted the link for how "my version" of Amell looks like because of technical issues. I'll put up a new one in a different chapter for those who are interested/haven't seen yet. (Or I'll try to figure out how to put a picture into the text I upload. I'm open to objections or ideas as well!)
> 
> Thank you very much for reading, please push the heart-shaped button if you liked it. ;)


	2. Innocence Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders and Amell's Adventures in the Circle tower continues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive trigger warning for implied/referenced sexual abuse of a minor.
> 
> Also Disclaimer: I do not approve of/romanticise/accept that kind of behaviour towards children (or even adults). I however, accept/approve of any kind of event (even horrible ones such as the example above) to be added into a story as an element of drama, tension, plot etc. Just because I write about it, it doesn't mean I approve of it or promote it. (It also can be done wrong, which I hope I did not commit. By the way, this part of Amell's past was already referenced in the previous upload's later chapters, so that's why it is here, to make relevance.)

_“Thank you, kind ser_

_For all that you’ve given me._

_Formed a child to a man_

_From a man to a wreck._

_Thank you for all the rage_

_For the pain and the broken nerves._

_You were my Maker, forming me to your image_

_And I’m standing here, announcing with glee_

_That you have failed.”_

_– A note written for an unnamed person,_

_found in Graeme Amell’s journal. 9:31 Dragon_

 

Amell turned twelve that year. He was an exemplary student, still favoured by many of his peers. First Enchanter Irving already planned to take Amell as his apprentice. The young mageling couldn’t be more proud. He still helped Jowan when he could and sometimes found himself sitting in the solitude of the library or the storage room, waiting for Anders to come around. He missed him. All he knew about his friend was that he took on Spirit Healing, and it - surprisingly enough - kept him busy with studying instead of planning his next big escape. Amell wondered if they were still friends at all, with how little time they spent together lately. Then one night Anders came, snuck into the storage room with him, and told him every little detail of his adventures. Things were like in old times.

 

Anders had plans for his next escape, but somehow he didn’t want to tell Amell about it. The kid was so happy to see him, it made the older boy feel some false sense of domesticity. Like coming home to a real family, or at least a too eager little brother, nagging him constantly to tell the tale of his latest escape. Like it was a game of sorts. For Amell, it might be. Anders looked at the little boy’s sleeping form in the dorm room, brushed his ebony locks from his face as a silent goodbye and turned to the door. He didn’t plan to come back. But before he could take a step the door opened, and Anders only had time to dive under Amell’s cover. Two of the patrolling Templars checked on the apprentices. Thankfully, it wasn’t uncommon for one child to sleep next to another, and they only got separated after a certain age, and only boys and girls. Amell woke up and blinked at Anders inquiringly, but he just pulled him into an embrace, as if calming him after a nightmare. Amell cuddled with him happily, and the Templars left not a minute later. Anders decided that he’ll wait another night.

 

* * *

 

 

It took nearly a week, so when the next opportunity came, he grasped it with both hands. Something was keeping the Templars from their usual patrol on the hallway where the apprentice dormitory was, and Anders couldn’t believe his luck. He ran as fast as he could without making too much noise, to the empty storage room with the barred window. He tried to fit through the bars, and he could – thank the Maker for being as thin and lanky as he was – but only barely. He tied a rope to the bars, and proceeded to climb out the window when he heard a small whimper from the dark corner. Anders raised a brow and climbed back, only to curse his curiosity. After all, it was the thing that killed the cat...

 

He found no other than Amell curled up into a ball on the floor, battered and clutching the remains of a former stuffed toy in his hands. His tears made clear paths on his dirty face, and he looked up at the only person he believed to be his friend. He didn’t need to tell what happened. Anders felt a pang in his heart, but he felt something more as well: anger. The seething rage of helplessness he wanted to escape from. He leaned down, and caressed Amell’s matted mop of ebony hair. “You will get through this. Be strong!” he wanted to slap himself for sounding like Irving, but he didn’t have much time if he really wanted to escape. “Don’t let them get to you, no matter what! Farewell, Mockingbird!” he said, then climbed out the window, and landed on the ground next to the tower, and ran to the shore. He wanted to swim over to the other side, but the water was cold and he could swear he saw curious shadows swimming deep inside the lake.

 

* * *

 

 

The whole thing could have ended in tragedy, but the ferryman saw him and dragged him back to the tower. Anders cursed, kicked and screamed and bit and scratched, but he couldn’t really harm the two Templars bringing him back to Irving’s office. He felt at least a little contentment, soaking the old geezer’s carpet with the stale water of the lake still pouring from his robes and hair. Of course he was reprimanded. Of course he was called many unpleasant things, but what infuriated him the most was Irving’s patronising. Oh, no he’s just a little rascal, pulling a prank. He means no harm, no need to take him this seriously. The old mage’s demeanour really put him in a bad mood.

 

Anders wanted to say a lot of things, but was advised by Irving to stay quiet, and go back to his quarters, to wait for the sentence about his punishment from Knight-Commander Greagoir. The two Templars took him by his arms and dragged him back to the apprentice dorms. Before shoving him inside the crowded room, the older Templar tightened his grip on Anders’ shoulder, and spoke. “Listen lad, don’t tempt fate! There will come a time, when both the First-Enchanter and the Knight-Commander will have enough of your shit, then you’ll be sentenced to more than scraping the floor or doing the dishes. And believe me, I’d hate to kill a child, but I will do it if it becomes necessary.” Anders landed on his feet after he got pushed and the door shut behind him. “That little rat has it coming...” he heard the fading footsteps of the two Templars through the door.

 

Amell began to scream out loud when Anders disappeared, and he didn’t stop for a long while. Not when the Templars came and one of them shook him to make him stop. Only for a moment before beginning again. He couldn’t – wouldn’t stop until his voice chords were reduced to shreds. The two recruits were unsure what to do with the apprentice, so they took him to the First Enchanter, but he was otherwise occupied. Amell thrashed, squirmed, wriggled, kicked and never stopped screaming until they were in Knight-Commander Greagoir’s office, and an iron gauntlet landed a slap on his face.

 

“We thought he may be possessed.” Amell heard one of the Templars through the haze of tears and the stinging pain in his cheek. “He was screeching like a demon.” the other added. “Then why did you bring him here?” Greagoir asked on a drained tone. “The First Enchanter wasn’t in his office.” came the answer. “Well, he is now. Take the brat to him, and tell him to keep his apprentices in check!” So, Amell was taken – dragged to be specific – back to Irving’s office, where the two Templars were assured that “the boy is just exhausted” and “depicted symptoms of hysteria due to overexertion” and that it will never happen again. Satisfied with the explanation, the two recruits left, but the true reason for Amell’s breakdown stayed with him until the rest of his life.

 

* * *

 

 

It went on for years, unnoticed. He dared not to tell anyone. Amell grew his hair and had it always hiding his face or rather sheltering him from the outside world. Anders had escaped and caught again a few times during the past two years, even had some time locked up in the tower’s holding cells, but still he was the only person Amell trusted so far. He even went to see his friend when he was locked up or escorted him around when he was made to run errands under close Templar surveillance. Then Amell was made to take up more classes on Primal magic and healing, so his days were busier than usual. He still met Anders at nights, after curfew.

 

Everything he knew and wasn’t about magic, he learned from Anders. His respect and love – not the romantic kind, at least not at first – grew with every night they spent together in the unused storage room with the barred window. The very same Anders once escaped from and Amell always went to if he wanted to be alone. When they were together, it seemed like none of the bad things mattered. Amell noticed Anders’ earring, and pestered him until he agreed to pierce his ear as well. “Do you even have an earring you will wear?” He asked. “Details.” Amell snorted. Anders sighed and went through the tiny purse he always had on his person, hidden between the folds of his robe. He hummed a tune idly while running through various trinkets and herbs he kept in the purse, and finally making a satisfied noise when pulling out a single jewel made of silver.

 

“Well, I missed your birthday anyway.” he shrugged and handed the earring over to Amell. “And silver is just not my thing. It would fit you better than me.” Amell’s eyes grew wide as he gazed down into his palm and the expensive gift he just received. “Are… are you sure?” Anders snorted and went back to rummage through the contents of his purse again. “Well, I wanted to sell it so I could buy supplies or a ride on a cart farther away.” he shrugged. “But I guess it will do as a gift. I’d rather if you have it.” Amell was overflown with emotions. “Thank you…” he blurted out while Anders returned with a thin and long needle he heated with a flame he conjured into his palm. “Oh, you won’t thank me after this.” he grinned. “Sweep your hair away!”

 

Amell obeyed and swept his hair from his right ear. He wanted to wear it the same way Anders had his. “All right, here we go…” A quick stab and a sharp sting later, Anders inserted the silver ring into Amell’s ear. “I’d cast a healing spell on you, but that would just close the hole. You’ll have to clean it every day to avoid infection…” Anders went on about how to treat his newly pierced ear, but Amell didn’t even hear. He wanted nothing more than to kiss him, and it was confusing. “It looks good on you, though.” Anders tucked Amell’s raven locks behind his ear. “A few years, and I might have you as a rival for the ladies’ attention.” Amell grinned, but it was more for the compliment itself than the possibility of him ever rivalling Anders’ popularity with the opposite sex. In fact, that possibility frightened him. “Did I say something wrong?” Anders inquired. “No.” Amell shook his head.

 

Then they were talking about the different fractions among mages, and that Anders was contemplating on joining the ones called “Libertarians”. He then went on and on about his elaborate escape plans, hopes and dreams. Amell sat beside him, leaning to the wall, and just listened. “Have you ever thought about what was it like?” Anders asked him one night. Amell swept his hair from his face and stared at the moon. “To feel the rain on your face, wind in your hair and all that cheesy shit you have been reading in the senior enchanter’s romance novels?” he asked back. “No. I’m content in being entombed among these walls for eternity, thank you very much. Why would I need such idle fantasies to distract me from my brooding?” Anders snickered. “Oh sure, the lame bard tales about heroes and damsels are far better. And they have a nice tune to them I guess.” His laughter faded as quickly as winter sunlight. “But seriously... Don’t you want to run away?”

 

Amell cast a glance at his friend from under the curtain of his hair, moonlight casting a silvery gleam in his sorrowful blue eyes. “I do. But I’m not like you. I couldn’t get past the perimeter and would probably drown in the lake if I tried to swim.” He remembered Anders’ stunt he pulled when the Templars took the apprentices out for some occasion. And that it nearly cost him his life. “You nearly drowned so many times and yet you keep jumping into that damned lake and try to swim to the shore. It’s fascinating.” the older boy didn’t answer just turned his head away. “I have to.” Anders spoke after a long pause. Amell kept staring at his toes. “I don’t want to be imprisoned for life because of something I was born with.”

 

* * *

 

 

It rang in his ear for a long time. Amell found himself contemplating his friend’s words, the promise of freedom, but he still knew in his heart that he’ll never be brave enough to escape on his own. So the torment continued. He grew colder every passing week, every “special assignment” he had to do, every time he was alone and wanted to scream like he did when he was twelve. But he learned in the meantime how to shut it out. To just let it happen.

 

He learned to own it. His depravity. His shame. His biggest failure. Once he almost found the will to attempt escape himself, but he chickened out in the end. Irving found him standing in front of the gate and asked him if he wanted something. Amell just shook his head and ran back to the apprentice quarters. He was so ashamed. Anders hated Irving, but for Amell the man was more like a father figure he looked up to and would never want to disappoint. He hid under the covers of his narrow bed and wished he could just disappear. Again, he found reassurance and some sort of solace in his nightly get-together with Anders. As the years went by, they found less and less time to spend together. With the serial escape attempts and Anders’ Harrowing, the two mages found a gap growing between them. Amell felt it, and wanted to voice his concern about it, but decided not to.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Fun fact: This is the only chapter where I wrote the "quote" that sets the theme. I'll try to refrain from inserting my poor attempts at poetry into the story later, but can't make any promises...


	3. Happy Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amell's Worst Birthday Ever (tm), also Cullen to the rescue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:  
> \- Slightly NSFW content in the beginning of chapter (not too graphic, but it's there), also Anders is 21if it is Amell's 16th birthday, so he is officially grown up, so I hope no one will get the cooties or a heart-attack seeing him with Karl (Let's leave it for Amell here). Also, he's free to drink alcoholic beverages. Even in his friend's stead.
> 
> \- A much more serious warning goes again for sexual abuse and implied victim blaming. Templars are assholes.

_“I’ve gotta try, it’s not over yet_

_No signals of life have you left_

_My heart is bleeding just for you_

_Bleeds for only_

_And it hurts to know the truth_

_Are you looking for saviour_

_Chasing a dream, love turned to hate_

_Now I’m crossing the border_

_Sealing our fate_

_But I’m not afraid…” – “Sinéad” – Within Temptation_

 

In the middle of one mild Fereldan summer, Amell’s 16th birthday coming up, and he was wandering about the library to surprise himself with a new book, when he heard a funny noise from the back of the room. He raised a brow and decided to go and investigate. Curiosity was always his weakness; he couldn’t deny it. The noises became identifiable as laughter and muffled chattering. Amell stopped in his track. Maybe he intrudes on someone else’s getaway with a friend… Then he recognized Anders’ voice and couldn’t help himself. He slowly tiptoed to the back row of ceiling-height bookcases and peeked from behind one. He saw a single candle on the ground, a glimpse of golden hair and fair skin - a lot of skin – and one of the Senior Enchanters locked in an embrace with Anders. At first, Amell didn’t know what to think other than that he should probably go. Then he heard his friend’s low moaning and turned his head back. Anders was lying on his back now, the Senior Enchanter’s head between his legs. This was the moment when Amell turned and ran.

 

He knew it wasn’t for him to see. He knew it wasn’t supposed to hurt this much. He knew it was his own fault and nobody else’s. He knew that his love for Anders is something different than love towards a brother. He knew it since the last time they have talked, and Amell was only a heartbeat away from kissing him. He felt his mouth’s corners curl up to a mocking smile even through the sting of his tears. Kissing was the only thing he was still comfortable with, and the only thing he wasn’t permitted. The only thing that wasn’t tainted. He fled into the storage room and sat down on the floor, permitting himself a quiet sob before defiance welled up in his chest, silencing him more quickly than a templar’s ability. He was pathetic, whining over a man that didn’t even know…

 

He sat there for a while, in the slowly darkening spot next to the window. He was still confused and heartbroken, and he knew that he can never tell the source of his heartache how he felt. Maybe he’ll get better tomorrow. Maybe he’ll get enough studies to worry about and forget Anders. The way the candlelight reflected on his hair. The look on his face, lips slightly parted as he let out a sigh of pleasure. Amell hit the wall beside him. The bitter claws of jealousy tore into his heart as he remembered the scene. He angrily swept a few of his tears away. Was he really crying about his friend getting shagged in the library by a man at least ten years his senior? As far as he could tell, it was consensual. Anders wasn’t objecting, in fact he seemed to… enjoy whatever the other man did to him. Amell’s stomach cramped. He should be happy that his friend had what he will probably never know. But was it really a crime if Amell wanted just a small piece of bliss and happiness for himself? The only kind he knew? He let out a shaky breath, hiding his face in his palms. He was about to stand up and leave, when the door opened and a familiar tall and lanky figure slipped inside.

 

Anders grinned at Amell and sat beside him, throwing an arm around the younger boy’s shoulders. “Happy birthday!” he put a half-empty bottle of brandy and two cups on the ground in front of them. “You thought I forgot you?” Amell sniffled, and fought the urge to drag Anders closer and tell him everything. “One of those Maker-damned Templars hurt you again?” Anders asked, misunderstanding Amell’s silence and overly emotional behaviour. “Where were you?” he already knew the answer, but he needed to hear it from Anders. “I was with Karl…” he stammered. “One of my instructors.” So that was his name. Amell recalled the older man with a neat beard and the red robe of the Senior Enchanters. So Anders knew him from way back… “Listen, can you keep a secret?” the blond whispered in his ear, and Amell just wanted to lean closer, look into those honey-brown eyes and tell his own secret. All of them. But he couldn’t. He must not know. He must not be bothered with it. So he just nodded. Anders smiled at him, and the world wasn’t so dark and cold anymore. “I think I love him.” The silvery line of moonlight brightened the room as if mocking Amell’s dark mood. Anders seemed to be oblivious of his friend’s distress, for he went on and on about the Senior Enchanter.

 

“We started this a year ago… Karl was… something different, I don’t know. Things got a bit steamy after I escaped last time and got brought back. He said he was worried about me, and we were alone… I thought it would be bad, but it wasn’t… And I think I actually want to spend time with him.” Amell noted that the cause of the loss of frequency in their meetings might actually be Karl. Anders poured the brandy to the two cups and gave one to Amell. “But I babbled enough. It’s your day. Let’s celebrate!” Amell didn’t feel like it. He took a sip from the cup and put it down immediately, coughing from the unpleasant burn of the alcohol. “Maker, that’s awful…” he pressed out, while Anders could barely hold his laughter. Since Amell wouldn’t touch the cup again, he had to drink its contents. They sat in silence for a while, then after the bottle emptied, the conversation became significantly awkward.

 

“Why so glum? It’s your birthday, you’re only sixteen once in a lifetime.” Anders nudged Amell. It was pretty clear that he was drunk. “I really have nothing to celebrate.” Amell suddenly felt numb. “I guess I’ll just escort you back to your quarters.” Anders threw his arms around the younger mage. “No… I don’t want to go back yet!” “It’s way past curfew.” Amell deadpanned. “Either you come with me, or I go alone. Not that you care much.” If he sounded bitter, he thought he has every reason to do so. He still couldn’t get the image of Anders and Karl out of his head. But why did it matter so much? His friend was happy, he should be glad, no? Why did it feel like he swallowed a piece of granite? Why did he feel like screaming? “Did I ever tell you, how beautiful you are?” Amell heard Anders asking, and felt the slender hand of the other mage turning his face to meet his gaze. He felt blood rush to his face as he processed the question, and realised it must be the bottle of Antivan brandy speaking. “You’re my perfect little punching bag. Always so obedient, so scared of what others think of him. I’m happy to know that you have a little spark of rebellion because of me.” He suddenly smooched Amell’s cheek and withdrew. “I should get lost before the Templars find me. Not sure I can put up a good fight with them right now.” Amell stared at Anders’ back as he turned to leave, and he couldn’t stand it longer without a word. “Don’t overestimate yourself, Anders.” he pressed out. The blond just smirked at him and went on his way. Same as Amell, who found himself running back to the dorm room without any regard for Templar patrols on the hallways. He flung himself onto his bed, and did his best to hold back his tears. It was a small victory when he found them drying without ever truly falling.

 

* * *

 

Anders ran away again the next day. Amell found the same numbness in place of the usual worry or sadness he felt last night. Everything felt muted, from the droning lessons to the usual bullying of the Templars. Amell had combat magic training and nearly burned his fellow apprentice when he felt a hand on his backside. He ran to the lavatory and threw up until nothing left inside him. He wished he could vomit out the poison in his core, to have healing magic powerful enough to close those wounds. He could barely walk out and was standing next to the wall when he heard an unfamiliar voice asking "Um... Are you all right?" It was a templar recruit, approximately Amell’s age, with curly blond hair and amber eyes, so similar to Anders’ it made Amell’s heart bleed. “I’m fine.” he lied. “It must have been something I ate…” “Shall I escort you to the infirmary?” the strictly formal manner of his speech would amuse the apprentice if he wouldn’t feel like a heap of manure. “No need.” Amell forced himself to smile. “I’ll go back to my studies.” He learned later that the new recruit’s name was Cullen, and he was something like a fish out of water in the tower. “First assignment or something.” One of Amell’s classmate and sometimes-friend Surana informed them. She, Jowan and Amell were sitting in a row in front of a table full of elfroot and other herbs they had to identify as part of the Spirit Healing class they took together. “And it seems like he’s different… I don’t know.” the elf girl finished her summary of the newest addition to Kinloch Hold. “He won’t be different for long.” Jowan shrugged, accidentally knocking his shoulder to Amell’s who winced at the touch.

 

“What’s wrong?” Surana asked, noticing the unusual reaction. “I just hit my arm on a doorframe, never mind.” Jowan took the bait and apologised, even joked about that Amell is finally lame at something, while Surana seemed to know better. She confronted Amell after class in the break between Spirit Healing and Chantry history. “Graeme… What’s going on?” she stepped in front of the boy, looking into his eyes. “I told you. Jowan was right, I’m lame at navigating the tower while I’m half asleep in the morning.” Surana let out a frustrated sigh. “Is someone hurting you?” Amell wanted to tell her. But then again, what would she think of him? She would know what a twisted kind of creature he is. She’ll never talk to him again. “No.” he said firmly. “You wouldn’t be the first.” Surana reached out and touched his arm, sending an electric jolt through him. “Please, leave me alone.” he ran away. Again. No one should know. They can never know. As he passed the corridor to the chapel, he saw Cullen casting a curious look at his direction. Amell felt his heart skip to his throat. The last thing he needed was a templar’s attention.

 

* * *

 

 

But in the end, it was exactly what saved him. Cullen was assigned to “library duty” as it was called, and it meant that he had to stand in front of the old library, seldom used by the apprentices for it contained tomes of old and complex magic, way beyond their comprehension. In short, it was mind-numbingly boring. Cullen stood his guard proudly and vigilantly well… through the first half of the day. He began to find his thoughts wandering around, usually to a pretty, tan elven girl with auburn curls and eyes that resembled the finest Antivan brandy in colour, a warm summer sunset in her gaze. If Cullen would know he will fall that hard and that fast, he’d probably ask to be relocated somewhere else… maybe to a tower that only had old people.

 

He kicked a dust bunny away and sighed, looking at the ceiling when he heard a muffled sound of distress coming from the library. He turned his head but didn’t leave his post. He felt he had to after a long while, if only to check if anyone was even there. “I know I’m chasing a ghost…” he muttered to himself, but even that was better than standing and doing nothing. The old library was mostly empty save from the bookshelves and desks. Cullen almost turned around and returned to his post when he heard it again. Like someone was crying. He heard rumours about ghosts of dead mages and apprentices who committed suicide lingering here, but never believed them until now. He swallowed the fear that threatened to suffocate him and pressed forward. The next time he heard the faint sobbing it was so close he suddenly had a feeling that he even knows the voice of the person – or ghost – that emitted it. He skirted a bookshelf and a desk and what he saw there, haunted him in a few of his nightmares later.

 

He found apprentice Amell lying naked on the floor next to the desk, bleeding from several wounds. And he was ugly crying, tears and snot covering his reddened face barely hidden under his long tousled hair. He was forming words Cullen didn’t really catch at first and was prepared to silence the mage if he’s casting something nasty, but then he leaned down – averting his eyes from Amell’s bruised nether regions – and understood what the mage was saying. “Kill me.”

 

Cullen carried him to the infirmary in his arms – learning in the meantime that what he thought to be two gashes on the mage’s wrists were actually a red string binding his hands together – and was waiting until the healers got Amell a new set of robes and healed his wounds. He couldn’t fathom how could anything like this happen to someone unnoticed in such an enclosed environment as the Circle. He voiced his thoughts, but Greagoir dismissed him right after he and the First Enchanter and some of the instructors arrived. They were discussing whether or not Amell was a blood mage, and if he needed to be made Tranquil, instead of forcing him through a Harrowing. Cullen didn’t want to eavesdrop, but he never left his spot next to the door. Amell was interrogated mercilessly, and it was clear that the Knight-Commander doesn’t believe a word he says. Irving tried to mediate between them, but he also sounded just a little too much like he was blaming Amell for what happened to him. As soon as they left, Cullen approached his superior in his office.

 

“May I have a word, Knight-Commander?” Greagoir gestured for him to go on without even looking at him from the reports he was reading. “That apprentice… Amell, I think is his name.” “What is it with him?” the older man’s tone still sounded indifferent. “Ser, I was the one who found him. He’s not practicing blood magic. He was… violated, and attempted to take his own life in shame. He should be spared.” Greagoir finally deigned to look at the young recruit. He sighed and shook his head. Naivety. Just what he needed. “What tales do they tell you recruits nowadays?” he asked while he stood up. “You can’t tell a maleficar by only looking at him. They can be anyone. And about that apprentice… Things like these happen from time to time despite our best efforts to separate them and to educate the Templars of their duty and the dangers mages pose.” “Things like that shouldn’t happen to anyone, ser. Mage or no.” Cullen riposted. “With that, I agree.” Greagoir nodded. “Yet now there’s nothing we can do. He didn’t even tell us the name of his assailant.” Cullen lowered his head. “So he will be made Tranquil?” Greagoir made an indignant grunt. “Well, he’s Irving’s pet so I leave the decision to him. But if you’re so eager to stick your nose into business you should be staying out of: make him spit out who attacked him. A fair change, one problematic mage for another would-be problematic. Everyone wins.” Cullen noted the sarcasm in the Knight-Commander’s tone, but he intended to do just that.

 

* * *

 

 

Amell was lying in bed, even though his physical wounds have been healed flawlessly. His skin was as immaculate as it was before it had been ripped open. He heard the low clanking of an armour and he looked up at the awkwardly pitter-pattering Cullen. “Why didn’t you kill me?” Amell whispered, unable to keep his gaze on the Templar much longer. “Oh, you’re welcome.” Cullen riposted. “Thought I might try to do what any decent person would call “the right thing” and save someone instead of fulfilling their nonsense request.” Amell ran his fingers through his hair, hearing the low tinkling sound of his earring as it collided with a button on his robe’s sleeve. The feeling of a hand running over his scalp, binding his hair into knots made him sick and he immediately put his hand over his mouth. “Um… do you need a bucket? Maker, just don’t get sick on the bed, the nurse will murder me!” Amell was fairly sure he could only dry heave even if he would really be that sick. He hasn’t eaten for days. “Why are you here?” he pressed out. Cullen lowered his gaze and cleared his throat. “Listen, I have to ask you a question, and I need you to answer truthfully.”

 

Amell frowned. “I already told the Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter about what happened. Please don’t make me relive that again.” “I will not, I promise.” Cullen nodded reassuringly… Or at least he hoped it was reassuring. “But I need to know who… Did this to you.” Amell forced down a bitter comment and his tears. “Why?” he asked. “So justice could be served.” came the answer. Amell wanted to laugh. But he didn’t. Cullen did seem like someone who thought there was such a thing as justice in this world, even for mages. He even recited a part of the Chant, which – in his explanation – was about a templar’s duty being protecting the mages under his charge. Amell wanted to see yet one Templar who took this part of the Chant seriously instead of the part “magic exists to serve man, never to rule over it” repeated to banality. The young recruit’s compassion was something he never saw before, and eventually, Cullen could break his resolve. He told him everything.

 

He was assigned under a new instructor, and slowly began to process the events of the past years while focusing on his studies. Amell became much more competent in aggressive, combat-related spells than any other he dabbled in, so the First Enchanter gave him a book about Arcane Warriors of old, hoping that learning some swordplay and to focus his – now unhandled – anger and channel it to something useful will help him with coping. And he was damn right about that. Jowan and Surana were happy to see him more-or-less back to his old self, and he sometimes exchanged a nod or a smile with Cullen if they met on the corridors or at the gates. They even talked if Cullen was standing guard in a remote part of the tower, discussing loopholes and corruption in the system, and how it could be mended. They had some differing ideas, but more times than not they could agree. And they both knew it was a dangerous thing.

 

* * *

 

Amell was out in the hallway not a full month later, doing some errands for Irving, when he saw the three armoured figures dragging a bruised and bloodied, struggling, screaming Anders down to the dungeon. He ran over to the fourth Templar, with the familiar blond curls.  “Cullen! Where are you taking him?” He asked on a hushed voice, careful not to draw attention. “I’m sorry, I can’t discuss it with you.” Cullen stuttered. Seeing the obvious worry on Amell’s features, he added “The Knight-Commander ordered us to take him there, that’s all I know.” He had an expression on his face that made him look like a kicked puppy in armour. Amell couldn’t help but permit himself a light smile, that was still tainted with concern. He involuntarily turned his head to the dungeons’ entrance as he heard a faint sound that eerily resembled Anders’ voice, as if he was screaming, but he couldn’t make out what.

 

Cullen also looked at the dark, gaping maw of the dungeon and cleared his throat. “Look, you shouldn’t be here now.” he nudged Amell to get his attention. “I will bring news of your… friend to you, if I hear anything.” Amell bowed his head “Thank you. I shall be on my way then.” He heard Anders’ faint yelling. It raised in pitch. Amell ran from the scene because he felt like running down and breaking the door to whatever cell they locked his friend – or more precisely, the man he loved – in, and free him from whatever horrible things those men did to him. But that would only mean that both of them would be punished. But no fear could drown out the little voice in his head that persistently came back to haunt him and said that something was terribly wrong.

 

Amell learned from Cullen that Anders has been sentenced to solitary confinement. He didn’t say anything else, not even when Amell tried to persuade him to tell in what shape Anders was in. The Templar just shook his head and dismissed the mage with a “Please, don’t ask any more questions about this!” then left. But this time, Amell wasn’t going to obey. He asked questions. He sought out Karl, only to discover that he will be transferred to Kirkwall’s Circle. He’d been forced to confess the true nature of his relationship with Anders, and the Knight-Commander was partly disgusted, partly furious, and wrote to his colleagues over the pond to see that this “troublesome element” gets removed from Ferelden.

 

“I only heard some disquieting news about him. Merely rumours I’m not sure if I want to believe.” Amell heard Surana speaking next to him while they had their lunch. “I heard the Templars put him into one of the cisterns. And that no one can visit him, only the guards, but even they aren’t permitted to speak to him.” She shook her head in disgust. “I wouldn’t be so curious about him, if I were you.” said Jowan, unsurprisingly. “You can’t get him out of there, so you might as well let it go.” Amell lay awake at night, thinking about a multitude of things at once. His impending doom or graduation into a full-fledged mage. His training and daily responsibilities. Anders. Mostly Anders. He heard his pained cries in his nightmares, but every time he ran to the dungeon to save him, he only found empty cells and skeletons shackled to the walls. A Fear demon laughed at him somewhere in the Fade, and he always sprung up in his bed, soaking in cold sweat.

 

* * *

 

 

He told Jowan about his Arcane Warrior training during the long weeks turned into months as he was preparing spells, and learned how to swing a sword. The younger apprentice was fascinated by the idea that the Knight-Commander allowed a mage to train how to use a weapon usually wielded by warriors. “That could be dangerous.” Amell turned to face the other apprentice. “We are already dangerous. It doesn’t really matter if we wield a staff or a sword.” Jowan was still enthusiastic about his friend’s skills, rooting for him to be chosen among the Knight Enchanters, combat-oriented mages of the Circle under the command of the Templar order. Amell didn’t tell him that he’d rather die than be a templar’s attack dog.

 

So many busy days gone by that he lost sense of time. His mind was at an ease somehow, and after the initial months of nightmares, he became simply too tired to be kept awake even by his restless thoughts. He rose before sunrise and went to bed late, just to have enough time to study and practice. As Amell grew more skilled with his chosen longsword, even the usual bullies began to turn their attentions toward someone else. Then one cold midwinter day, Amell saw two Templars emerging from the dungeon, carrying a body. He only saw their charge for a moment, but he never forgot the stench of sewage and decay, the glimpse of dirty blond hair and that the form seemed so lifeless. He feared the worst, but heard one of the Templars speaking. “Blighted bastard bit me. It still stings.” “Well, you shouldn’t let your guard down. Lucky I was there to knock him out.”

 

Amell felt a need to follow the Templars and at least see for himself if Anders was alive, but he suddenly stopped midway. Why would he do that? Didn’t he have more important things to do now than running to a person that probably never cared about him the same way? He got nudged by none other than Jowan, who caught up with him after saw him dart off to follow the Templars. “What’s up?” he asked, knocking Amell out of his thoughts. “Nothing.” Amell replied on a sad tone. “I just wanted to see if the bloke the Templars were carrying was Anders...” Jowan looked after the slowly disappearing figures and commented “Well, if it was him, then he spent a full year down there… Poor bastard.”

 

* * *

 

 

A year. A whole year, spent in the darkness, accompanied only by his own thoughts that were slowly spiralling down to madness. The hallucinations were part of everyday life, light was a distracting rarity that hurt his eyes and hurt his head. He started to talk to himself. Then he spoke to Mr. Wiggums, the tabby cat that somehow found its way into the dungeon. That small animal became his only source of warmth and company for months. Even the Templars stopped coming after a while. Not the nightmares though. He could deal with physical wounds, but he couldn’t use a spell to heal a broken mind. Anders vaguely remembered Mr. Wiggums jumping at the throats of three Templars after being possessed by a rage demon, then he found himself lying in bed, all clean but feverish. At least he was out of that damn cell. He blinked and slowly opened his eyes, and immediately shut them again.

 

“Back with us?” a familiar voice asked. Anders tried to open his eyes again, and this time he let himself adjust to the dimly lit room. A young man in the uniform golden robe of already Harrowed mages sat across from him, gazing at his face with steely, unbelievably blue eyes. Anders knew he should be someone important, but couldn’t remember. He wasn’t conventionally handsome, but had remarkable features. Anders struggled to match a name to the face of the man sitting next to him. Although he was debating even if he was old enough to be called a man. Something was off with this mage. His face was young, yet his hair was completely grey. Anders faintly remembered someone close to him, who had such high cheekbones and big, slightly almond-shaped eyes in the colour of the cloudless sky. “Amell…?” He probed, and the strange barely-stranger rewarded him with a smile. “So you remember me.” he stated. “Where’s Mr. Wiggums?” Anders continued his interrogation. Amell’s eyes grew wide, brow arched so it almost disappeared under his hair. “And what the Void happened to you?” came the next question.

 

“Umm…” Amell tried to follow his friend’s queries, but was distracted by a small fact he didn’t hesitate to voice. “There’s nobody called Mr. Wiggums here… And about my hair… Harrowing.” Anders blinked in surprise. Did Amell already go through his Harrowing? “Wow. That’s… Well, congrats. But you still haven’t answer my question about my cat.” Amell brushed his face with his palm. “You mean that mangy old tabby cat, the tower’s mouser? It died of old age two years ago, remember? You bawled your eyes out and convinced me to help you dig a grave for it.” Anders didn’t remember. He lowered his head, gazing at his legs under the blanket. “Are you…” Amell began but couldn’t bring himself to finish. After all, how can someone be “all right” after one full year of solitary confinement in a Maker-forgotten cistern? Anders turned his face towards him, but his eyes weren’t focusing. “I don’t know how am I still alive…” he answered the unfinished question. Amell’s heart sank. “I healed you… You were in an awful condition when the Templars brought you here.” He remembered that day like it was yesterday, not nearly a month ago.

 

He left Jowan at their quarters, got over with the errands for the day, and rushed to the infirmary. Anders was filthy, feverish and on the brink of death. Amell insisted on helping the other healers there, and personally tended to his friend’s every gash, scratch and bruise, cleaned him and put him in a spare bed, made him drink a potion and some water. He checked on him ever since, after classes. Jowan came along once or twice, and helped Amell with manhandling Anders so they could heal the rest of his injuries. “I only wish I could have someone to look out for me the same way…” Jowan sighed after they left the infirmary. Amell stopped, and stared at him for a moment before pulling him into his arms. “I’m sorry Jowan. I’m a horrible friend…” the other apprentice began to object, but Amell shook his head. “I’m here for you, all right? Whatever you need.” Jowan patted him on the back then freed himself of the embrace.

 

Amell’s Harrowing was at that day. He never talked about what he had to go through, and what did he face in the Fade, but everyone noticed the change: He had black hair when he went away, and his hair was grey like an old man’s when he came back. Jowan asked him about it, and was antsy for his own Harrowing, but Amell couldn’t care less. He was a horrible friend indeed. “I’m just glad you made it.” He told Anders. “What did they do to you?” he asked, carefully reaching out and sweeping the tresses of long blond hair from Ander’s back. He saw the scars, the gashes, the bruises. He hoped against hope that the worst didn’t happen to his friend, but had no way to be sure. Too much time had passed anyway. “I can’t talk about it…” the answer was barely more than a whisper. Amell hugged Anders, then let him go. “Then don’t. I just wanted you to know that I’m here. And I won’t let anyone hurt you again.” Anders laughed bitterly and turned back to examining the fabric of his blanket. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” he said on a hushed voice. 

 

Amell meant every word. He knew it was foolish, but he wanted nothing more than to cuddle on the cot with Anders, fighting away his fears, chasing away his nightmares, and if the time is right, running away with him. He wanted to tell him that he loved him. He wasn’t even afraid of his reaction anymore. But he had responsibilities. “I have some errands to run.” he sighed, patting Anders’ hand. “I’ll be back in a while.” He headed to the First Enchanter’s office - Jowan told him the old man wanted to see him – but he spotted Cullen standing next to the library’s door, so he took a turn towards him.

 

“Greetings!” the Templar smiled at Amell as he stopped in front of him. “I’m glad your Harrowing went well.” Amell mirrored his smile although a bit sarcastically, and corrected his grey hair tied into a ponytail, same way as Anders wore it. “Thanks. I wasn’t looking forward to being run through either.” Cullen’s expression soured. “Some Templars I know discuss such things with glee… I don’t share their “enthusiasm”.” Amell was glad about that, but didn’t say. “I try to serve the Maker first and foremost.” Cullen explained. “As long as I am guided by His commandments, I cannot go wrong.” “I envy your… dedication.” Amell nodded. Sometimes he indeed envied the templar’s firm belief in the way things should be. He lost faith the moment that storage room door closed on him when he was twelve years old. “Honestly, I’ve never seen an abomination.” Cullen’s musing dragged him out from the dark depths of his mind he was about to return to. “Or never been called to slay one.”

 

“So, you don’t know how an abomination looks like?” Amell queried, amused by the conversation, but otherwise indifferent. “I told you I’ve never seen one.” Cullen replied. “But surely if someone turns into one something… must happen.” he furrowed his brow and cast a gaze at Amell that was bordering on being paranoid. “But what if it’s not obvious? Maker, could abominations be walking among us right now?” Amell was more concerned about Cullen’s sudden paranoia, but he tried his best to calm him. “I’m sure there are not a single abomination here.” The Templar exhaled and visibly relaxed. “Sorry, it’s still new to me. Maybe one day I will be just as dedicated and driven as Knight-Commander Greagoir.” _“Maker, I hope not!”_ Amell thought, but he forced a smile on his face. “I should be on my way…” he pointed to the corridor. “Oh, yes. You must be busy.” Cullen smiled sheepishly. “Maybe we can talk again later.” “You bet.” Amell’s smile became genuine, and he went on to the First Enchanter’s office.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I wanted to give Cullen more "screen time" and develop something between him and Amell that could be called "friendship" with a stretch. It will be more heartbreaking to see their interactions later. Mwahaha. 
> 
> \- Sorry for the in-game dialogue. Get used to it, I have chapters filled with in-game scenes and dialogues because I didn't want to rewrite the whole thing. I try to avoid it when I can, but please keep in mind that this isn't my story. I'm just sort-of doing a cover.


	4. Out of the Frying Pan...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for keeping up with this mess!
> 
> \- Forgive the in-game scenes in advance, but I couldn't avoid them here. 
> 
> Warnings: Blood.

_“If I leave here tomorrow,_

_would you still remember me?_

_For I must be travelling on now_

_‘Cause there’s too many places I’ve got to see_

_But if I stay here with you, girl_

_Things just couldn’t be the same_

_‘Cause I’m as free as a bird now,_

_And this bird you cannot change…” - “Free Bird” – Lynyrd Skynyrd_

 

 

The moment he stepped inside, he knew that something will change. There was someone talking with Irving and the Knight-Commander, a man Amell never saw before, but recognized his armour from the history books he devoured whenever he had the chance. He was a Grey Warden. He tried to convince the First Enchanter to send mages with him to someplace called Ostagar. Because there was a Blight, and the King needed as much support as he could get. Greagoir was objecting. Loudly. Amell couldn’t care less. He cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, please!” The Warden silenced both the mage and the Templar “First Enchanter, someone is here to see you.” Irving turned towards the door, and Amell. “Ah if it isn’t our new brother in the Circle. Come here, child!” Amell obeyed and hesitantly raised his hand as greeting. “Uh, hello.” “This is…?” The Warden inquired. “Yes, this is he.” Irving replied before he could finish the question. “Well, Irving, you’re obviously busy.” Greagoir inserted himself into the conversation. “We’ll discuss this later.”

 

Amell barely had time to scoot aside from the Knight-Commander’s way. He past his Harrowing, and already saw his 20th winter, yet he still was afraid of the man, just as much when he was a child. “Of course.” Irving sighed. “Well then, where was I? Oh, yes. This is Duncan.” he gestured towards the other man. “Of the Grey Wardens.” Amell bowed his head. “Pleasured to meet you.” “You’ve heard about the war brewing to the South, I expect?” Irving carried on. “Duncan is recruiting mages to join the king’s army at Ostagar.” Amell’s heart pounded in his ears. He only heard about the war when he accidentally eavesdropped the conversation between Irving, Greagoir and Duncan, but his first thought was that he’ll volunteer. Maybe take Anders, Jowan and Surana with him. If only things would work that way… He barely heard Duncan’s words about the darkspawn, and Irving’s chiding him to “stop scaring the lad with tales of the Blight and darkspawn.” Like he were still a little boy, scared of his own shadow. “We live in troubled times, my friend.” Duncan stated. “We should seize moments of levity, especially in troubled times.” Irving argued and turned back to Amell.

 

“The Harrowing is behind you, your phylactery is sent to Denerim, you are officially a mage within the Circle of Magi.” Somehow Amell wasn’t happy about all of that. He knew the moment the words left his mouth that he should have kept it shut, but he didn’t care. Not anymore. “My leash, you mean.” he commented grimly. “Now, child. It’s not that bad.” Suddenly Amell understood why Anders hated the First Enchanter. “It’s not that bad.” “It could be worse.” “Be glad that you got away with just this.” These were the words he received every time he tried to tell Irving what was going on. Every time he tried to tell him that someone was hurting him. That someone was hurting his friends. He felt more gratitude towards Cullen than anyone else in the damned Circle tower. His face was still an expressionless mask when he looked at Duncan as he inquired about what a phylactery was. From what Amell heard about it, it was Chantry-sanctioned blood magic to hunt down any and all mages who turned apostates. Duncan probably heard the same lesson. Amell wanted to talk with the Warden, but first he was handed a new staff and a ring bearing the Circle’s insignia. He already got the robe he was wearing. Duncan wished to return to his quarters, and Irving tasked Amell with the role of the escort.

 

They walked through the corridors to the guest quarters mostly in silence. Amell didn’t want to push conversation and Duncan didn’t start it. Only when the doors closed behind them, the Warden addressed the mage. “Thank you, for walking with me. I am glad for the company.” Amell felt his face go red. He didn’t know what to make of Duncan, and he certainly wasn’t used to someone being glad for his company. Well, someone who wasn’t a mage like him anyway. “I… I wanted to ask you so many questions…” He began to stammer, unsuccessful in hiding his anxiety. “Why were Irving and Greagoir arguing about the war? When did these darkspawn attacks begin? Who are permitted to go with you, and… And…”

 

Duncan’s smile made him even more nervous. He managed to make an idiot out of himself. Wonderful. “Anyway, I just wanted you to know how honoured I feel to have met you.” he concluded, hoping that it will smooth things. “I am flattered.” Duncan replied “I didn’t expect such a warm welcome, to be honest.” Amell was surprised to hear it. “Why? Grey Wardens are heroes and great warriors. Who wouldn’t welcome them?” Duncan cast a stern gaze at him. “Being a Grey Warden is a calling. A sacrifice. Our duty is to battle the darkspawn, wherever they arise.” Amell nodded his head. He listened while Duncan explained where the darkspawn came from this time, and that he was here on the king’s behalf for asking greater commitment to the war effort from the Circle. “I will go.” Amell blurted out before he could change his mind. “I was trained for this.” suddenly he felt like everything has fallen into place. But what Duncan said to him felt like a cold shower. “You’re barely over your Harrowing. I’m afraid even if I would agree to you joining the king’s army, the Knight-Commander or the First Enchanter has other plans for you.”

 

The rejection hurt him more than anything he ever had to endure. He walked back towards the infirmary, planning to return to Anders’ side, but Jowan grabbed his sleeve and dragged him along. When they finally stopped, in an empty part of the library, Jowan began to assault Amell with questions. About the Harrowing, the Grey Warden allegedly lodged in the tower, the war, the rumours spreading faster than wildfire around the apprentices about the opportunity to join the king’s army. “Hey, hey, hey stop right there!” Amell raised his hands, silencing his friend. “But, are you done talking with Irving?” Jowan asked despite Amell’s strained expression. “Anyway, I need to talk to you. In private. About what we discussed this morning. Do you remember?” Amell didn’t remember. He had so many things going on, that he completely forgot what was he discussing with Jowan. Of course, he’d never tell him. He made a promise to himself, to try and be a better friend to everyone who counted him among their circle. He just got too busy. “I ah… Yes, I remember.” he lied. “Good.” Jowan sighed in relief. “Then I don’t have to explain it all over again.” “Why are you whispering?” Amell asked, looking around for Templars, but he didn’t see any. “I just don’t feel safe talking here.” Jowan replied, and that instantly rang the warning bells in Amell’s mind. “All right. Come with me!”

 

* * *

 

 

They locked themselves up in the good old storage room. It was a bit crowded, and they had to get way too close for Jowan’s taste, but he could finally get this out of his system. “I feel… troubled lately.” “No shit, I noticed.” Amell nudged him. “Liar.” Jowan grinned, but his expression returned to the concerned frown he had before. “I told you I met someone, right? Lily.” Amell nodded in an all-knowing fashion. “Oh, I get it. Girl-related problem.” “Um… Not exactly. But yes, it is related to her. I just wanted you to…” Jowan stammered and silenced as soon as he heard the door opening. Two Templar recruits poked their heads in the room in the same moment Amell dropped to his knees and dragged Jowan along. “What are you doing?” Jowan mouthed, not daring even to whisper. Amell put a finger on his mouth, signalling to stay quiet. “Nothing in here.” one of the Templars hummed, then both of them left, closing the door.

 

“Whew.” Jowan exhaled loudly. “You, getting down on your knees in front of me scared me just as much as the Templars. Mind you.” Amell laughed. “Why, what did you think I was about to do?” “I don’t know honestly, but I’m glad it ended up as ducking behind this rackety old desk.” Amell felt the good old reflex of his stomach cramping for the mention of the desk, but he maintained his façade of cheerfulness. “Oh, Jowan. You know you’re not my type.” he slapped his friend’s shoulder playfully. “Thank the Maker for small mercies.” Jowan riposted and got up, dusting his robes off. “Could we speak with Lily?” he asked after Amell fought himself to his feet as well. “I’ve been wanting to introduce her.” Amell gestured for Jowan to lead the way.

 

They found her in her usual spot. At the chapel. At first, Amell didn’t want to believe his eyes. Jowan chose a Chantry-sister of all people. But then again, who was he to judge? Lily noticed them, and her face blossomed into a wide smile as she closed the distance between them in a few steps, carefully pulling Jowan along into the shadow of a column. “I knew you would come!” She hugged him. “Oh, he did. Twice last night.” Amell commented, earning a disapproving glance from Jowan. “So, this is the girl you’re cheating on me with?” he looked at Lily, who got more and more confused by the minute. “I’ll kill you for this.” Jowan grumbled. “What? Cheating…” Lily turned her face from Jowan to Amell. “He didn’t say he had someone…” “Because we’re just friends!” Jowan flailed. Amell inhaled sharply, as if hurt. “Why you… Ten years of sharing our bed means nothing?”

 

Jowan’s eyes shot lightnings as he turned to his friend. “Amell, can you not…?” Amell cracked up and laughed. Lily looked at one or the other in confusion. “We’re really just friends, Lily. And yes, we did sleep together, _when we were little_.” Jowan explained. “And I think warning you about Amell being a professional asshole is no longer necessary.” Lily snickered. “She’s laughing! It was funny.” Amell stuck his tongue out at Jowan. “You’re such a…” He sighed and waited until a few other sisters left, along with an apprentice named Keili, who spent almost all of her free time in the chapel, praying for the Maker to relieve this curse from her. When everyone cleared out, Jowan turned to Amell. “Remember what we talked about? That I think they didn’t want to make my Harrowing? Now I know why. They’re going to make me Tranquil.”

 

The room turned around Amell. He believed he already saw the sunburst brand on Jowan’s forehead, purging everything that made him human and severing his connection to the Fade. “No. They can’t do that.” Amell didn’t realise he was nearly shouting, only Lily’s gesture for him to keep his voice down made him aware. “I will not allow it.” He growled in addition. “There’s… There’s this rumour about me.” Jowan confessed “People think I’m a blood mage. They think that allowing me to be a Circle mage would endanger everyone.” Amell reached out instinctively and grabbed the sleeve of Jowan’s robe.

 

“And is it true?” he asked. “Of course not!” Jowan snapped. “I need to get out of here. Help me escape and find my phylactery! Lily and I can’t do this on our own.” Amell’s hand dropped back next to his body. “You have it all planned?” He mused. “As a matter of fact, not really.” Jowan stammered. “But you’re the smart one, you’ll figure out something!” Amell sighed. “All right. Let me think…” “Give us your word that you’ll help, and we’ll tell you what we plan.” Lily’s piercing gaze met Amell’s cold one. “Please, if you care about what happens to me, help us!” Jowan whined. “I will help.” Amell felt his throat go dry as he said the words. “You can’t tell a single soul!” Lily warned him. “If you say a word to anyone, Lily will be punished.” Jowan added. “We’re on our own.”

 

* * *

 

 

Amell couldn’t decide if what came next was because of sheer luck or fate’s horrible sense of humour. It all felt like a dream. The pang of guilt in his heart when he took the ancient staff from the repository, the rush of adrenaline as he unleashed his power onto the sentinels, or when he healed Lily or Jowan if one or the other got injured, and the feeling of triumph and despair when Jowan took the vial filled with his blood and smashed it on the floor. Standing in front of the disappointed stare of Irving and the cold, merciless one of Greagoir, Amell found himself repeating the same sentence over and over again in his head: _“This isn’t happening. This can’t be true.”_  “So what you said was true, Irving.” the Knight-Commander stated. “Greagoir…” Lily said the name in fear. “An initiate conspiring with a blood mage…” Greagoir shook his head disbelievingly. “I’m disappointed, Lily.” he turned to Irving, who stood a few steps behind him

 

“She seems shocked, but fully in control of her own mind. Not a thrall of the blood mage then.” Amell stole a glance at Lily’s concerned face than Jowan’s silent rage, same that bubbled inside him as well. Someone sold them out. “You were right, Irving.” Greagoir’s voice snapped Amell out of his thoughts “The initiate betrayed us. The Chantry will not let this go unpunished.” He turned around, pointing a finger at Amell’s direction. “And this one! Newly a mage, and already breaking the rules of the Circle.” Irving’s gaze fell on Amell’s. “I am disappointed in you. You could have told me of what you knew of this plan, and you didn’t.” “I’d never betray my friends.” Amell managed to spit out through the constricting feeling of a knot in his throat. “You don’t care about the mages! You just bow down to the Chantry’s every whim!” Jowan added his voice to the discussion. “Enough!” Greagoir snapped at them. “As Knight-Commander of the Templars, I sentence this blood mage to death.” He turned to Lily without a hint of an expression on his face. “And this initiate has scorned the Chantry and her vows. Take her to Aeonar!”

 

Amell was about to cast the last spell of his life that would either buy enough time for Jowan and Lily to run for it, or destroy them all, but this time, his friend beat him to it. “No! I won’t let you touch her!” Jowan yelled, and struck a knife through his hand. A big, red cloud appeared around him, seemingly pouring out from the severe wound he caused for himself. Then, with a wave of his hand, the cloud swept over the Templars, blinding them and causing them to bleed until they died. The bloodcloud caught Irving and Greagoir as well, but they only passed out. When it was over, Jowan turned to Lily, but she was slowly backing away from him. “Blood magic… But you said you’d never…” “I had no choice!” Jowan tried to explain “I dabbled… I thought it will make me a better mage…” “Blood magic is evil, Jowan.” Lily’s back touched the wall. “I trusted you…” “I will give it up, Lily! I just want to be with you!” “I don’t know who you are, blood mage. Stay away from me!” Jowan was devastated, Amell could see in his eyes for a moment before he turned and ran away.

 

“Now what?” He asked. “We wait. They shall rise soon.” Lily answered, not taking a single step from the spot where she stood. And indeed, not a moment later, both the Knight-Commander and Irving regained their senses. “I should never have agreed to help you.” Amell sighed. “I just wanted to go back to Anders.” Now he’ll never see him again. “I knew it.” Greagoir grumbled as he fought himself to his feet. “Blood magic. It overcomes so many…” Amell felt the irresistible need to tell the Knight-Commander that maybe if the Circle wouldn’t treat mages like animals, then maybe accidents like this could be avoided, and blood magic wouldn’t be so tempting. But he remained silent, resigned to his fate, which was yet to be decided by the pair. “Are you all right, Greagoir?” Irving seemed to be more concerned with the Templar than with Amell, for which he would be grateful if it would mean anything. “I never thought him capable of such power.” The Templar mused about Jowan. “None of us expected this.” Irving said on a soothing tone. Amell turned away from them.

 

“If you only let me act sooner, we could have prevent this!” He heard Greagoir yelling at Irving. “Now we have a blood mage on the run and no means of tracking him down!” Amell smirked when the memory of Jowan smashing his phylactery under his heels flashed into his mind. If only he could do the same… “Now where’s the girl?” Lily, hearing her cue, appeared next to the two older men. “Knight-Commander, I’m here.” “You helped a blood mage! Look at all he’s hurt!” Amell could barely contain his laughter. It all seemed like a badly composed comedy to him. Now it all clicked into place. Nobody sold them out. It was a test. A final one. One he failed by standing by his friend, who in the end turned on him. He never knew if Jowan was aware of this, but he felt like it doesn’t matter anymore. Lily – coward Chantry-sheep she was – accepted her punishment of being sent to the most horrible prison on the surface of Thedas. As the Templars took her away, Amell held out the staff made of black wood he was still clutching in his hand. He much preferred a longsword anyway. “First Enchanter… I believe this is the Circle’s property.” Irving seemed genuinely surprised by the act of decency. “Did you… find it down there in the repository?” He asked. Amell nodded. “I wish to return it.”

 

“Your antics had made a mockery of this Circle!” Greagoir turned his ire towards the young mage. “What do we do with you?” “I was helping a friend.” Amell said as calmly as he could. “And do you think that excuses you?” Greagoir was livid, and Amell thought he wished he could tell Anders about this. He’d appreciate it. “No. I don’t think I need excuses for doing the right thing.” The Knight-Commander’s eyes grew so wide Amell feared for a moment they’ll fall out of their sockets. “The right thi…” he began and rubbed his face with his gauntleted hand, as if fighting back a stroke. He might have been doing exactly that. “You helped a blood mage escape! All our security measures for naught, because of you!” The yelling didn’t scare him, Amell found. Nothing scared him anymore. He knew what awaits. Either death, or he can join Lily in Aeonar. He felt a small piece of contentment for passing his Harrowing, so they can’t make him tranquil. He – same as many other mages – preferred death over that state. Especially after talking to Owain for a while. But then again, fate was a curious thing.

 

Duncan stepped forward, and called on the right of conscription to get Amell into the ranks of the Grey Wardens. Looking back now, Amell thought he will be grateful for him until the end of time. Packing his scarce belongings and following him out the double iron gates of the tower felt unreal. Amell was afraid that he’ll wake up in a prison cell. He stared at the slowly disappearing silhouette of the Circle tower in the distance, and felt an overwhelming sense of joy. He was laughing until his sides hurt, and ran until he dropped to the ground from exhaustion, Duncan didn’t seem to mind. Amell was finally free, and he intended to repay this favour whatever was the price.

 

After downing the dark liquid in that goblet, writhing on the floor in agony, he wanted to rethink that, but when he regained consciousness, he decided. A new set of blue and grey uniform waited him next to his cot, and a pendant filled with darkspawn blood from the Joining ritual. Amell shed his old robes like he was shedding his old life, and when he dressed up he fastened a longsword to the strap on his back. He intended to be everything the Chantry was afraid of: An Arcane Warrior. A Grey Warden. A hero maybe. Someone they can’t touch.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the friggin' notes again, yes, I'm still doing this because no one told me otherwise. :P
> 
> \- Sorry for the inconvenience of reuploading the whole thing, but it was necessary. Also the fic will be much longer this way. This might take several days for me, but I plan to redo the whole fic until the part I was when I started the editing (It was way into the Awakening era).


	5. ... Into the Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry my dears for taking it so long. I had to add some more context to the story - and wanted to sum up the whole of "Origins" in one or two chapters, which seemed like a good idea at the moment, but wasn't. Anyway, here's what came next.
> 
> Trigger warnings: Blood, swearing, mentions of past attempt at suicide, systematic abuse and inhuman practices, - basically, this chapter will contain characters yelling at each other a lot. It's full of conflict and angst, so if it's not your cup of tea, I suggest skipping this one.

 

_“…Oh damn, the war is coming_

_Oh damn, you feel you want it_

_Oh damn, just bring it on today_

_You can’t live without the fire, it’s the heat that makes you strong_

_‘Cause you’re born to live and fight it all the way_

_You can’t hide what lies inside you, it’s the only thing you know_

_You’ll embrace it and never walk away_

_Don’t walk away…”- “Iron” – Within Temptation_

 

It felt like someone cast a fireball inside his abdomen. It hurt even more when the ogre threw him off of its horn and he hit the ground. Amell lost consciousness, only coming to for a moment when he heard Alistair’s panicked mumbling _“Hang on, you’re going to be all right. Maker, there’s so much blood. Hang on. Just hang on.”_ and felt his metal gauntlets pressing on the hole just above his hip in a futile attempt to staunch the bleeding. The pain tore him out from the clutches of death, if only temporarily. Another unidentifiable amount of time later he felt Alistair’s weight pressing him down, as he too succumbed to his injuries. It felt almost calming, knowing someone tried to protect him in the end, even if in vain. The battle was lost. That was the last thought that crossed Amell’s mind.

 

Or at least, it was the last thought he had for a while before waking up in a hut somewhere in the middle of the forest. Looking back, Amell had some theories about why the infamous Witch of the Wilds saved his and Alistair’s life, yet at the time, it was much of a mystery to him. The new addition to their exceptionally small party - Morrigan – being another. She distracted his thoughts more often than not, and she never hesitated to voice her disdain of Amell’s need to “fix everyone’s lives he comes across”. “My, the darkspawn will be proud.” She sneered after he settled a debate between some folks in Lothering. It seemed she wouldn’t mind if everyone in the darkspawn’s way should be obliterated, if they could get closer to their goal in the meantime. Amell wanted to explain to her that “saving Ferelden from the Blight” also meant “rescuing kittens from trees” as she put it. But he didn’t. He didn’t have time for her petty selfishness. It came as a shock when she finally opened up a bit to him, and told him that despite living her whole life free from the horrors of the Circle, it wasn’t anything like a fairytale. Flemeth was a cruel and strict parent, devoid of motherly love. No wonder Morrigan thought very little of such “weaknesses” as she called Amell’s every attempt at comforting or being empathetic towards other people.

 

* * *

 

He never knew what she saw in him in the end. Maybe it was only curiosity. Alistair and Amell talked about a lot of things that night, sitting next to the bonfire. Amell asked about Alistair’s time as a Templar recruit, and somehow the question just found itself leaving his mouth before he even got a chance to change his mind. “So, if you were to be a templar, you’ve never…?” “Never what?” Alistair asked back. “You know what I mean…” Amell felt blood rushing to his cheeks. He already regretted asking. Alistair went on with various guesses at what he “never” did, including licking a lamppost in winter. That image made Amell blush and he hid his embarrassment with a laugh. “You’re impossible to talk to…” he snickered. “Why, my dear friend? Have _you_ licked a lamppost in winter?” Alistair riposted and Amell took his most seductive face he could manage to say “I licked many lampposts.” Alistair went red and then pale and was about to say that the mental image disturbed him greatly, but before he could open his mouth, Morrigan’s voice bellowed from a mile away. “Oh, don’t you believe him, he’s a virgin, just like you!” Amell was indeed dreaming about “licking Alistair’s lamppost” for quite a while since they met. He even tried to flirt with him until he realised that the other Warden – same as his old friend, Jowan – was irredeemably straight, and either deliberately ignored his awkward flirting, or was plain oblivious. Amell didn’t stop it though, if only to tease Alistair. It became significantly more awkward when Alistair finally got it, and stopped talking with Amell for a few days. Those few days were when Morrigan called him to her tent.

 

She thought he took so long because of some legendary boost to his stamina by the Joining, but in fact, it was only partly true. Amell froze, then he was just going through the motions with her until the time came. He felt like he wasn’t there, and if he was only observing what happened between this woman and that man whose body he was trapped inside of. He was obedient and careful, and somehow he managed to feel some semblance of pleasure, yet he still never wanted to do it again. He was grateful that Morrigan didn’t seem to notice his predicament. The last thing he needed was her judgement.

 

* * *

 

From the very beginning, Morrigan and Alistair bickered like children, while Amell only slightly disagreed with her on some things. There was a gap between them, and Amell couldn’t figure out how to bridge it. Leliana was someone easy to get along with as long as one was able to tune out the Chantry propaganda and weird belief that a freshly Harrowed mage – turned – green Grey Warden recruit is the Maker’s “chosen one” of all people. He got along surprisingly well with Alistair, even after their awkward talk, but Morrigan was still a mystery - Sten, the qunari was another mystery to him, but not nearly as an intriguing one as the witch – and Amell felt like he’s walking on thin ice whenever they talked. She was infuriating, yet observant and her sharp wit was endearing, Amell had to admit. Even if he wished that she’d just learn not to act like a bronto in a glasswork shop when talking with others, especially ones she deemed inferior. And she deemed everyone else inferior.

 

Amell tried to talk some sense into her one time, but he was met with heavy resistance. For a long time after that, he thought that Morrigan indeed thinks very little of him personally, joining Sten with his own judgement of Amell’s character. Even after they saved the people of Redcliffe from a horde of undead, the opinions of that two seemed not to differ from before. Amell even volunteered to find the local smith’s daughter, trapped somewhere in the castle, or so he’s been told. If that wouldn’t be trouble enough, seeing Jowan no less behind bars, and probably behind a lot of trouble around the castle clearly put Amell’s nerves to the test. He felt like he was out of his body again while he interrogated his former friend about what was going on. It felt unreal. He saw the repository, the broken phylactery and the blood spraying onto the faces of the Templars coming to get them. He saw the despair and anger in Jowan’s eyes, replaced only by regret. “I’m such a fool.” Jowan said. Amell couldn’t help but laugh. “Yes, you are.” What should he do now?

 

Alistair warned him that it wouldn’t be wise to let Jowan go, while Morrigan and Leliana both advised him of giving the blood mage a second chance. Amell knew the moment he saw Jowan’s bloodied and broken form in that cell that he’ll get him out of there. Whatever it takes, and if anyone had any objections, well they were free to keep it to themselves. The three of his companions clashed again. He couldn’t care less. Before opening the cell door though, he felt like he had to ask. “Where will you go if I let you out?” “Maker knows.” Jowan sighed. “Probably somewhere far away. Might even leave Ferelden.” Amell nodded. “Please don’t do anything stupid again.” He tried to smile, but only a bitter frown took form on his face. “I can’t promise.” Jowan mirrored his frown, and proceeded to stagger out of his cell. Amell shook his head and cast a healing spell on him, earning the disapproval of his company again. He didn’t care. He knew he had to save his friend from whatever he got himself into."Now go!" He forced his voice to be as emotionless and cold as he could muster. "I never want to see you again."

 

“That wasn’t a good idea.” Alistair grumbled as they crossed the courtyard to the castle gates, to let Ser Perth’s knights in. “I know.” Amell commented. “Well, I mean he is a blood mage and all… You can’t be sure if he won’t hurt other people, or run back to Loghain to report.” Amell looked at his friend, and hoped that Alistair can see the exhaustion written on his features. “I know. You are right, I can’t be sure of any of that. But as you said, Jowan is my friend… Someone like a brother even. Yes, he betrayed me and used me. I haven’t forgotten, even if I forgave him. He had no choice.” Alistair shook his head and stopped in his track. “How can you trust him still after all he has done?” Amell stopped and rubbed his nose-bridge. “Listen, I know it seems like a bad idea. And it probably is. But if you were there in that cell, convicted of the same crime, I would let you out all the same.” “Why?” Alistair sounded rather confused than impatient. “Because – much like yourself – Jowan isn’t a bad person. Just exceptionally stupid.” Amell replied. “Oh, so you think I’m stupid.” Alistair glared at him. Amell let out a painful chuckle. “No, I meant that…” “Hey, I know what you meant.” the other Warden nudged him. “And I trust your judgement on things. It was just… odd. I thought you are against blood magic and all.” Amell sighed. “I am against blood magic. But that isn’t the only defining thing about my friend. Same as almost being a Templar isn’t the single defining thing about you.”

 

* * *

 

Maybe it was this conversation, or seeing Jowan again that sparked the thought inside his head. As they sat in the ferry making their way back to the Circle tower, Amell had time to think. “You look nervous.” Alistair nudged him again. “I’m returning to the scene of my worst nightmares, why shouldn’t I be nervous?” Amell quipped. He turned his head away from the menacingly looming form of the tower, rolled his eyes on Morrigan’s comment about the tower’s shape and symbolism, then let his thoughts wander again. He heard rumours about the tower lately. Back in Lothering even. Months ago. He wondered if he’ll see some more familiar faces. “Alistair…” he began and when his fellow Warden turned towards him with an inquiring expression, Amell asked him in a low voice. “Are we able or permitted to conscript people into our ranks?” Alistair’s eyes grew wide but he slowly nodded. “In fact we are, the only problem is that I don’t know how the Joining works.” Amell furrowed his brow. “But… You were there on mine.” “Yes, I know the words to say, but not the… magic stuff. You know. _The one we can’t talk about._ ” He pressed the latter part of his sentence to raise Amell’s awareness of them being among outsiders. The ferryman didn’t seem to notice, Morrigan and Leliana didn’t mind. “Ohwell.” Amell shrugged. “Here goes my plan to liberate the whole Circle.” Alistair laughed. “I doubt all of them would want to go through the Joining and battle darkspawn for the rest of their lives.” Amell smiled sadly. “I know. Still, I have some people I’d like to take with us, if we have the chance.” Alistair shrugged. “What’s one more mage?” It was Amell’s turn to laugh. “Hey, maybe I’ll bring a Templar or two just to balance things out.”

 

Whatever plans he had, went to dust the moment he stepped inside the heavy iron gates. There were Templars running around like headless chickens, more of them wounded than not, and in the middle of the chaos, Amell heard the thundering voice of the Knight-Commander barking orders. Not a single mage in sight, save for the ones coming inside. “The doors are barred.” Alistair commented. “Are they keeping people out, or in?” Amell didn’t answer him only quickened up his pace until he was practically running towards the Knight-Commander. “…And now we wait. And pray.” Greagoir finished his sentence and turned away from the Templar leaving to fulfil his orders. “What’s going on?” Amell asked without wasting time on pleasantries and greetings. “Well, look who’s here. A proper Grey Warden are we?” The old Templar sneered. “Glad you’re not dead.” The last comment made Amell furrow his brow. “You’re glad I’m not dead?” “Perhaps.” Greagoir crossed his arms in front of his chestplate. “But now we’re dealing with a situation that doesn’t involve you _Grey Warden._ ” He emphasised the title.

 

Amell’s eyes narrowed. “Why? What are you dealing with?” Greagoir sighed and turned away from the younger man. “I shall speak with you plainly: The tower is no longer under our control. Abominations and demons stalk the tower’s halls.” “What?” Amell snapped. “How…” Greagoir stared at him intensely. “We became too complacent. First Jowan, now this.” His tone carried a chill to it when he added “Don’t think I have forgotten your part in Jowan’s escape.” Amell stared back at the Templar, his face without any hint of the fire burning inside him, wanting to be unleashed upon the Knight-Commander, and anyone who stood in his way. “I’m glad my friend got away from here.” He spat, barely able to conceal the contempt in his voice. They needed allies, but seeing the tower in ruins, Amell began to doubt if they will find them here. “However, Jowan’s escape seems like a small matter compared to what’s happening. Have you any news of the First Enchanter?” he was proud of himself to be able to swallow his anger back so quickly, that Greagoir decided not to jump at his throat. “Sadly, I do not. We only saw demons and abominations, hunting Templars and mages alike. I realised we cannot defeat them, so I ordered my men to flee.” “You left them to their own fate.” Amell slowly shook his head. “Why am I not surprised.” “Think what you will, it has been done.” Greagoir dismissed Amell. “I have sent word to Denerim, calling for reinforcements, and the Right of Annulment.”

 

Alistair was a silent observer until now, but when the Knight-Commander finished his sentence, he had to grab Amell’s arms before his fellow Warden could straight up punch the older man in the face. “What can we do to help?” he asked in Amell’s stead, because the mage’s body shook visibly with rage. “I will not help him killing everyone!” Amell yelled. Alistair saw a flash of grief passing Greagoir’s expression when he added “You are assuming there are any mages left to kill.” “It’s all your fault.” Amell seethed. “You left them to die. Their blood is on your hands!” Greagoir turned to Alistair, probably judging him as the voice of reason. “The situation is dire. There is no alternative, everything in the tower must be destroyed, so it can be made safe again.” Amell just laughed hysterically, no longer straining against Alistair’s grip. “Well… Mages are anything but defenceless.” Alistair mused. “Some of them might still be alive.” “If that is the case, then the Maker himself had shielded them.” Greagoir stated. “No one could have survived those monstrous creatures…” he shook his head and this time, some semblance of sorrow crept into his voice. “It is too painful to hope for survivors and find… nothing. Only the Grand Cleric in Denerim can authorise the Right of Annulment, and we must wait for reinforcements. If I’d order my men to go inside, we would only be massacred. While the door holds, we wait.” Amell was still inside the grasp – slowly easing into an embrace – of Alistair, his bubbling rage tamed but only slightly. “To the Void with you, Greagoir!” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Let me in, _I_ will do your Maker-damned job for you.”

 

“I do not doubt you think much of yourself…” the Knight-Commander sneered “But you must find and slay all the abominations and demons inside the tower to get to the bottom of this. Are you sure you are capable of doing this?” Amell wanted to shout at him, to tell him he had dealt with darkspawn and undead for the better part of the past few months, but Alistair beat him to it again. “We are willing to investigate the tower in exchange for a favour. There is a Blight, and the Grey Wardens need allies. We have treaties stating that the Circle tower must lend a helping hand if the need arises.” Amell fought himself free from Alistair’s arms, and stared at Greagoir in an open challenge. “I can deal with your abominations. You’re free to stay here and do nothing in the meantime.” “Oh, that arrogance hangs around you like a fell cloud, doesn’t it?” came the riposte. “Very well. Enter the tower, but know this: once you are inside, there’s no turning back. I will not let anyone out of that door unless it is the First Enchanter himself.” Alistair nodded, Amell only stared at Greagoir with unconcealed hatred. “We shall see if the First Enchanter is alive then.” the mage growled. “And secure any possible survivors.”

 

Before they could enter however, they heard an impatient scoff behind their backs. “Do you really want us to rescue these pathetic excuses for mages?” Morrigan crossed her arms in front of her. “They are allow themselves to be corralled like cattle, mindless. Now their masters have chosen death for them, and I say let them have it.” Amell span on his heels to face Morrigan. “Well then, let’s be glad that it is not you, who decides who is worthy to be saved.” He snapped. “Just look at how they live.” Morrigan went on. “They’re servants of the Chantry. They lack respect for themselves or their own power, why should I respect them?” Amell took a step closer to her, his whole person radiating tension. In other days, he would just roll his eyes and say something sarcastic to the witch, but now he reached his limit. “ _We_ will go inside that tower, and save who we can. _You_ either join us and help, or get the fuck out of my way!” Morrigan pulled her nose and left to wait for them at the docks under the tower. Amell shook his head in frustration and went back to the rest of his companions waiting in front of the iron door. “There must be someone alive in there.” Leliana made her voice heard. “We’ll find them.”

 

* * *

 

 

It was worse than any nightmares of darkspawn horde or swooping archdemons Amell ever saw. The abominations massacred everyone and everything in sight, be it apprentice, Templar, or an unfortunate bat trapped inside the tower. Amell’s old teacher, Enchanter Wynne joined them, and she even managed to save most of the young apprentices from harm. Still, her work dwarfed next to the destruction the abominations wrought on Kinloch Hold. The first few bodies were shocking enough, but after Amell saw the tenth or so familiar face, he felt like nothing can hurt him even more. He saw the elf who shooed him away from “his light” before he left the Circle. Amell forgot his name. He saw the remains of that girl who was afraid of the Templars watching her bathe. Another body, another memory. The lonely, chubby kid who was always picked on by the Templars and older mages. The little girl with natural talent for hexes. The Templar with the funny accent. It became too much very soon, and after a while, Amell heard voices calling for him. “Hey, slow down!” Alistair’s voice finally broke through. “You’re running like mad.” “I’m going to get them.” Amell growled. “I’ll burn them to cinder, petrify them and crush them…” “Calm down…” He heard another voice, Leliana appearing next to him. “Poor thing. It must be horrible for you now. You knew these people.” Amell nodded, not trusting his voice to be as calm as he wanted to pretend he was. Leliana took his hand and gave it a squeeze, and he forced a smile for a brief moment before ordering the company to move on. “I have a blood mage to kill.” One of the few small reliefs only dawned on him after they left the apprentice quarters: He saw neither Anders nor Surana among the dead.

 

His anger only heightened in intensity after stumbling into Irving’s office, and finding his journal. Amell didn’t want to read it, knowing very well it wasn’t meant for anyone else but the First Enchanter to read, but his curiosity got the better of him. After a few pages of relatively uninteresting musings about the College of Magi and other Enchanters, Amell found a list of names, his own among them. He furrowed his brow and read on. His hands trembled and he was only seconds away from lighting the book on fire when a sudden thought made him change his mind. He needed this reminder to himself, to never let it happen again to anyone else. He pocketed the journal, along with another, interesting looking book, and turning back to his friends. Wynne didn’t notice that he practically stole two books from the First Enchanter’s desk, and Amell counted it among the small mercies of the day. “We should move on.” he urged them.

 

Leliana was a bit relieved to see that Amell’s burning rage somehow tempered down. She joined him in the front row, leaving Alistair to look out for Wynne. There was a host of Rage demons attacking them, and she feared that it was the young Warden’s own storming emotions that lured them. Amell was still stopping from time-to-time to take a look at a fallen mage, probably trying to identify them. He burst to tears once, when an abomination rushed them, and they had a hard time killing it. Amell said he knew the man the monster once was… And he only sneered. “Now his outside reflects his inside perfectly.” They had to stop after that fight, and wait to regain their respective strength and mana. Alistair sat down next to Amell, and tried to start a conversation. “Hey… If you’d tell me who are you looking for, I might be able to help.” The mage hung his head. “I can’t seem to find them… Maybe they aren’t even here. Maybe they escaped the tower somehow.” His voice was strained, strenghtless, and it was obvious he didn’t believe what he said. He just wished to. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through, but I’m here if you need me.” Alistair squeezed Amell’s shoulder. “After all, you were there for me after Duncan…” Amell sighed and forced a smile on his face. “Let’s go.” He stumbled forward, barely seeing anything besides the blighted walls, the demons, and the dead.

 

* * *

 

 

Being trapped in the Fade, fighting his way out back to the tower nearly drained him dry. Niall told him to get the Litany of Adralla from his remains, and Amell’s heart broke for another soul he couldn’t save. He wanted to save that Templar as well, but running his blade through the man seemed the same sort of salvation Amell himself could expect from the Chantry. It was all wrong. Everything was wrong. He ran through the halls killing whatever opposed them like he was one of the undead he battled in Redcliffe. When they reached the last staircase leading up, Amell thought his second Harrowing will end, but then he saw one armoured form trapped in a force field, moving. “This trick again? I know what you are, it won’t work! I will stay strong!” the voice of the young man made any hopes of Amell’s that this nightmare will finally end dissipate. “Cullen? What have they done to you? Don’t you recognize me?” The Templar sunk down on his knees, averting his eyes from Amell’s form. “Only too well. Oh, how deep they have delved into my thoughts… Enough visions! If you have anything left in you that is human, kill me now and stop this game.” Alistair caught up with Amell, Wynne and Leliana close by.

 

“Cullen, I’m not a vision. I’m here.” Amell tried to reach through the barrier, but drew his singed hand back with a pained grunt. “There must be a way to dispel this…” He tried and tried in vain until Wynne stopped him, saying “We don’t have the appropriate spell, and we need our strength to battle Uldred.” Amell sighed and turned back to Cullen, who stared at them indifferently, like he wasn’t even there. The mage knew that look too well. He opened his mouth to ask if the Templar knows anything about Uldred, or how the whole calamity broke out, but Cullen shouted “Silence! I will not listen to anything you say!” He began to cry, slowly standing up. “Begone!” he yelled at them again, then his face turned to confused from desperate. “You’re still here… But that always worked before! I closed my eyes, but you are still here when I open them!” Amell stepped as close to the barrier as he could. “It is because _I am here_. I told you, I’m not a vision. And I will get you out from there.”

 

“Why have you returned to the Circle?” Cullen’s voice became suspicious. “And how did you survive?” Amell raised his brow. “Why is it so surprising that I returned? The tower was my home…” “As it was mine!” Cullen interrupted “And look what have they done to it! They deserve to die. Uldred most of all.” He fought the panic that kept on creeping back to his voice while he told Amell what happened. “They caged us like animals… Tried to find ways to break us. I’m the only one left.” Amell felt the blood run out of his face. “They turned some into… monsters, and there was nothing I could do…” Cullen trailed off and Amell tried to comfort him. “Uldred will pay for what he had done.” The templar’s face was still a mess of confusion and hate. “And to think once I believed we were too hard on you.” “We aren’t all the same.” Amell snapped. “Only mages have that much power at their fingertips, only mages are so susceptible to the infernal whispering of the demons.” Cullen replied.

 

It would escalate even further if Wynne wouldn’t decide to end it. “This is a discussion for another time. The First Enchanter, Uldred, and the mages who were with them. Where are they?” Cullen glanced at the staircase leading to the top level of the tower. “They are all locked in the Harrowing chamber. The sounds coming from there… Oh, Maker.” Alistair began to walk towards the stairs, followed by everyone else but his fellow Warden. “We have to hurry; they might be in danger.” “You can’t save them! You don’t know what they’ve become!” Cullen yelled after Alistair. “I am a mage too, Cullen.” the low, gravelly voice of Amell made the trapped Templar turn his head back at him. “But you weren’t up there with them. You are not under their influence.” He began to panic again. “They are surrounded by blood mages, whose wicked fingers snake into your mind and corrupt your thoughts! You must end it now!” “I’m not going to kill innocents.” the mage stated. “And you think you save anyone by taking that risk? To ensure this horror is ended, and none of the blood mages or abominations will roam free, you must kill everyone up there.” “No.” Amell shook his head. “I will only kill Uldred and his followers. I will save who I can.”

 

“Then why wasting your time with me?” Cullen spat. Amell swallowed the knot in his throat. “I want to save you too, Cullen. You have done the same for me, I can’t do less…” “Don’t even remind me of the biggest mistake of my life.” the Templar shook his head. It felt like he slapped Amell over his face with the iron gauntlet he wore. “Mistake?” the mage echoed. “What are you talking about, you were the one who convinced me not to kill myself. You were the one who wanted to do the right thing, you were my friend!” Amell just wanted Cullen to come out of the force field and hit him in the gut instead of staring at him like he was a piece of rotten meat. Like all the others looked at him. “I am beyond caring what you think.” Cullen snapped. “The Maker knows my sin, and I pray that he will forgive me.” “How can you say that?” Amell yelled. “After all you saw here, all that you saw me going through, how can you say such a thing?”

 

“You are a mage. And I a Templar. It is my duty to oppose you and all you are.” Cullen fought back “I shouldn’t have fraternise with you, or try to save you from the sin and depravity of your kind. And I am no longer that foolish, naïve boy. I know better now.” “You can’t condemn all of us for what Uldred had done!” Amell tried to reason with him. “You can’t sentence a whole group of people to death for the actions of one!” “You can’t tell maleficarum by only looking at them. Only one can affect the mind of a king or a Grand Cleric! You can’t let your foolish compassion doom everyone!” Amell shook his head and didn’t even hear Alistair’s heavy boots as he went back and practically dragged him away from the force field.

 

* * *

 

 

When the deed was done, Amell led the First Enchanter down to the barred doors, while the rest of his companions rallied up the survivors. They got a promise from Irving that the Circle of Magi will help the Grey Wardens against the Blight. The Wardens thanked the First Enchanter then left the tower, Alistair barely hearing Amell’s muttered “I need to get out of here.” before the mage darted to the gate leading down to the docks. Later, when the tower slowly shrank in the distance behind them, he dared asking what’s the matter. “I can’t talk about it.” Amell deflected Alistair’s question, and they left it at that. For a long while, they were padding the road around Lake Calenhad, leading back to Redcliffe. They could join the First Enchanter and his group of mages on a boat, but Amell wasn’t having it. He needed the open air, the cold wind and the hard ground underneath his feet to anchor him to reality.

Everyone could see that something was wrong with their leader, but no one wanted to risk him snapping at them like he did with Morrigan. Said witch still distanced herself from the rest of camp, sulking in front of her own small bonfire, staring at nothing. Amell lay awake on his bedroll, stealing a glance or two at her direction, then he decided to let her steam until next morning. Alistair noticed him being awake, and nudged him. “How are you? Any better?” Amell nodded. “As good as I can be after this.” “I’m afraid to ask, but why did you want to kill yourself?” Alistair inquired after a short pause. “You told that Templar that he was the reason you didn’t do it, and for a long while I was just standing there thinking, why in the Maker’s name you wanted to die?” Amell stared into the flames before digging out Irving’s journal. “Read the pages I marked.” he said aridly. “You’ll understand.”

Alistair gave the book back after reading a single page. He wasn’t as mad as Amell about its contents, but he wasn’t personally involved either. “What were they trying to accomplish with that?” He asked, still staring at the journal. “It was an experiment.” Amell’s voice was shaky. “To see which one of us is “redeemable…” Meaning if they can break us and beat us into submission.” Alistair couldn’t believe his ears. “But… This is inhuman.” Amell barked a bitter laughter. “Welcome to my world, Alistair. We aren’t treated like humans or elves. We’re weapons or tools to be used.” He swallowed the bile that threatened to make its way through his mouth. “And I was a promising subject. I almost became the perfect slave for them. If Duncan wouldn’t come along, I think I’d even embraced death with a smile on my face.” “This is madness.” Alistair was mortified. “No, it is the Circle. You either bend into it or break.” Amell took a deep breath to chase away his tears. “And I’m glad that my friends - whether they are alive or dead – no longer have to suffer its horrors.”

 

 

* * *

So, because I can't seem to add a link any other way (or just painfully lame to figure out how) here are the previously removed visuals on: [Graeme Amell](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1p0lHeFvAzyFYNorQOiPexqwezMB2-A3V/view?usp=sharing), and a [little extra](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1VYWp9a4SHGncwPzDwXjVzC8X9hhHnJks/view?usp=sharing).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for reading/sticking around!


	6. Heroes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I'm back again. This chapter will be the last set in "Origins" and as such, will contain huge time skips (in case it's problematic for someone). I didn't want to write the whole story into one chapter anyway, just scenes/events that became referenced later, to add context to them, so please read with that in mind.
> 
> And yes, Amell's mabari is called Cat.
> 
> Warnings: Violence, blood, occasional cursing, slightly NSFW content (nothing graphic yet, but that might change if I decide to re-write it later), mentions of past abuse, drunk sex - (might count as dubious consent for some people), and a metric ton of other things I probably forgot to mention here. Proceed with care! (Also, as usual, if you see anything that slipped the list above - it is possible - please tell me in a comment, so I can revise the warnings.)

_“I can see_

_When you stay low nothing happens._

_Does it feel right?_

_Late at night,_

_Things I thought I put behind me haunt my mind_

_I just know there’s no escape now, once it set its eyes on you,_

_But I won’t run, have to stare it in the eye._

_Stand my ground I won’t give in,_

_No more denying_

_I got to face it_

_Won’t close my eyes and hide the truth inside_

_If I don’t make it, someone else will_

_Stand my ground…” – “Stand my Ground” – Within Temptation_

 

 

 

“Men are always willing to believe two things about a woman. One, that she is weak, and two, that she finds him attractive.” The words made the corner of the mage’s lips curl upward in a crooked smile. “So, you don’t find me attractive then. My, what a surprise.” They had this little game of sarcastic remarks and sneers going on for weeks now. Neither of them were bored with it as much as Wynne, but even she remained silent whenever the witch and the warden began their usual verbal duel. Amell always left with a smile on his face, even if Morrigan had the last word. Which she did most of the time. Tonight however, was different. The events in the Circle made their way to the conversation, and caused the air to grow tense around Morrigan and Amell once again. The rest of their party wandered off to do whatever they saw important at the moment, if only to get away from the awkward banter. Leliana picked some flowers, Alistair stirred the stew for the millionth time, Wynne tried to bury her frustration in a book. Shale wasn’t interested in anything the party did, leaving only Sten to guard the pair from his usual spot. Cat remained at his owner’s side, leaning to Amell’s leg and panting happily.

“Look, about what happened at Kinloch Hold…” Amell sighed “I shouldn’t have snapped at you.” Morrigan didn’t even look at him. “I apologise.” She finally turned her head towards him, still not uttering a word. Amell never felt so uncomfortable before, not even under the piercing stare of the Knight-Commander. “Anyway…” he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly “I just want to say I’m sorry. It will never happen again.” She snorted and turned to leave, but Amell caught her arm. Morrigan glared down at him for the blatant disregard of her boundaries, and the man let go of her. “Um…” Amell stuttered and dug into his backpack, to fish out a worn book, covered in black leather. “I found this in Irving’s office. I think you could use it.” All the disdain and frustration disappeared from Morrigan’s features when she put her fingers on the grimoire handed over to her. “’Tis Flemeth’s old grimoire! You remembered me mentioning it?” Before entering the Circle tower, they had a chat about the lost tome of Morrigan’s mother. Amell only remembered it when he realised the black book is actually a grimoire. In the multitude of events at the tower, he forgot about the conversation and the book completely. “Now you know I actually listen to you sometimes.” He jested. Morrigan glared at him but slowly her hard stare got replaced by some giddy expression as she opened the book. “You have my thanks. I shall begin studying it immediately.” Amell shrugged. “Have fun!” Morrigan stood up to leave once again, and Amell didn’t want to anger her with another needless touch, so he cleared his throat. “Morrigan…” she turned back and raised her brow in curiosity. “What is it now again?” she snapped. “Do I have a chance at making things better?” he inquired. For a moment, there was silence so profound even the crickets stopped chirping.

“You are a curious and frustrating man.” Morrigan grumped “Why must you strive so for everyone’s approval? Is what you already have not enough? Must you always want more?” Amell stood up ignoring Cat’s indignant whine, and stepped closer to her. “I don’t want you to leave. I don’t want whatever we have, to end here.” “And what is it what we have?” she asked “You honestly desire some cloying and cluttering delusion of love of me?” No matter how many times they went through this, Amell always felt like he swallowed a piece of the Frostback mountains. He felt cold and heavy. “No. I suppose not.” Her stance eased and she left for her own spot, farther from the rest of the camp. “I’m glad we finally agree.”

 

* * *

 

 

Her words rang in his ears while he stood in front of the First Enchanter, the Arlessa and everyone else who gathered around the sleeping body of Connor. Amell volunteered to go into the Fade and try to save the boy’s soul from the clutches of the demon possessing him. Jowan came to his mind as well, if only for a moment, and Amell swore to find him one day. To save or kill him depended heavily on the outcome of his endeavour, and if Connor survives the ordeal. Irving touched his shoulder, tearing Amell away from his train of thoughts. “It is time.” he said, gesturing to the small bowl with the glimmering blue liquid in it. Amell remembered his Harrowing, the way the lyrium freezed and burned his hand to the bone, the awful sensation creeping up to his heart. He wasn’t anticipating getting into contact with the substance again. Yet, with a sharp exhale of breath, he took his gauntlet off, and slid his hand into the bowl. His eyes met Morrigan’s, but he saw only curiosity. No sign of worry or compassion. Her face was the last thing he saw before the world turned black, then he woke up under the greenish sky, littered with floating islands made of dreams.

 

It didn’t take long to find the Desire demon. It tried hard to thwart Amell’s every attempt at freeing the little boy’s psyche of its influence, but each time it tried to attack, it failed spectacularly. Knowing this, it wasn’t much of a surprise to see the demon in a less threatening stance the next time Amell met it deep in the Fade, surrounded by fragments of Connor’s thoughts and memories. “We don’t have to fight!” the demon pleaded. “I understand that you’re much stronger than me. I offer you something you might find useful!” Amell furrowed his brow. “Aren’t you all?” “I can be of use to you.” the Desire demon purred, floating closer to the mage. “I will release this mortal from my grasp, but I want something in return. And if you let me, I can help you with your task. From what I gathered, it isn’t an easy or small one.” They were too close for Amell’s taste. “And what would want from me for this deal of yours?” he asked and regretted it immediately after seeing the black pits in the demon’s face widen. “Well, you’re a clever and studied man. I guess you already know.” Amell rolled his eyes and tried not to shudder in disgust as the demon’s talons grazed over his face. “Every demon I meet is so preoccupied with my body.” he sighed. “I have some bad news for you, sweetie: there’s a long waiting line. My former instructor, a witch and a Pride demon are all put their claims on it before you.” The Desire demon didn’t even blink. “Oh, but they don’t have a deal made are they?” Amell fought hard to conceal his fear and antipathy towards the creature. His face was as unreadable as an enchanted journal. “Neither will I make a deal with you. What I offer you is an ultimatum. Leave Connor alone, and never return. Or fight me, and perish.” The demon laughed with contempt. “Oh I love your fire… But you are right. Rage would suit you better than I. Such a shame.”

It floated a few feet away from Amell, pouting and examining him from head to toe, like it saw him for the first time. “Although… I can offer you something else, if you do not wish to merge with me.” Amell swallowed the knot in his throat. His grip on the hilt of his sword tightened. “I am not interested.” “A pity.” said the demon on someone else’s voice. In a blink, Morrigan stood where the demon once had. “I could give you whatever you desire… I could make her change her mind…” Amell took a step backwards, trying to put some distance between them. The demon chuckled menacingly, and slowly changed her shape again. Its form became taller, its hair turned fairer, to a shade of sandy blond, its yellow eyes darkened to amber. “Or… I can make him yours.” That was it. Amell leaped forward with a battlecry. His will faltered, he knew he would be lost if he hesitates one more moment. The blade went through the demon’s hide, and it shed Anders’ likeness when it hissed in pain. It made everything easier.

 

* * *

 

 

They left for Denerim the same day. Connor was fine and pretty much his original self, seemingly none the wiser. Arl Eamon however remained comatose, unresponsive to even the most powerful healing magic. The Urn of Sacred Ashes remained their last hope of ever reviving the old man. It was important for Alistair, important for the Arl’s people, so Amell decided they can’t waste more time. He gathered some of his followers and left the rest at the castle, to remain by the Arl’s side and thwart any future attempts at his life. Wynne, Alistair and Leliana followed Amell on the road, and secretly worried about his unexpected silence.

 

They had other things to worry about soon, after they left the Imperial highway. A bit far north from the remain of Lothering, they ran into someone who seemed like a refugee in trouble. It quickly turned into an ambush, and a massacre after Amell burned everything to the ground excluding the elf, who led the attack. He wasn’t sure what to do with him, especially after hearing him out. The Maker seemed to have an awful sense of humour, for the failed assassin had a pair of familiar coloured eyes. Amell barely heard Alistair’s objections and Leliana’s tale about the Crows of Antiva, he was so lost in thoughts. The elf wanted to remain by his side, and help him in exchange for his life. Amell leaned down and freed the assassin from the ropes that bound him. “Welcome aboard, then.”

 

He got along surprisingly well with Zevran. So well, he sometimes had to remind himself that the elf is an assassin, hired to kill him and Alistair. So far, Zevran made no attempt on their lives other than the failed ambush. He was flirting with Amell shamelessly, making Alistair blush and Leliana snicker, and was someone pleasant to travel with. It never occurred to the mage that the elf wants anything from him other than protection. He had a way with words though. Amell had a hard time not letting him under his skin, but more often than not he found himself staring at the lithe figure in green leather armour picking flowers or sharpening his dagger next to the fire. Zevran was a mysterious person, and Amell had to admit that he was drawn to him, wanted to uncover the mystery as much as the elf. He then always sighed and reminded himself that he has someone already, and left it at that.

 

* * *

 

 

The underground city of Orzammar wasn’t anything like Amell ever saw. Even the rare pictures he found in old tomes were inadequate in describing the dwarf kingdom’ splendour and wealth, but also its shadows. After winning a tournament and solving the quarrelling nobility’s nearly every problem, Amell began to lose his patience. A little distraction came just in time before he decided to shoot lightning at the next dwarf who glances him the wrong way. They found a merchant, and a small golden mirror caught his mind. Morrigan didn’t seem to notice, she was otherwise occupied with guessing the kind of animal roasting on the next stall’s grill only by the smell. Shale silently followed them around, sometimes inserting a sarcastic comment or two into whatever conversation it deemed worthy of such. Zevran found the golem fascinating, and prodded it for more awkward banter.

When they finally ended the day in the tavern, Amell pulled Morrigan away from the rest of the company and the dwarven patrons. “I have something for you.” He smiled. “Is it another necklace or a pair of earring? My, I might need a bigger pack soon.” she teased, but her smirk faded when the man folded her hand around the small item. “’It is… Just like the one Flemeth smashed on the floor, so long ago.” She raised her head a look of amusement on her face. “It is incredible that you found one so like it…I am uncertain what to say. You must wish something in return, certainly.” Amell smiled “it’s a present. For a beautiful woman.” It caught her off-guard. “I have never received a… gift. Not without a price attached.” she sighed, but a smile crept up to her face. “Perhaps there is a price to pay yet?” she chuckled “If so, ‘tis deserved. Thank you. Really.” Amell couldn’t describe how these simple words and warm reception made him feel. He laughed a little bit more easily that night, and slept a bit easily as well.

 

* * *

 

 

So the next time he spoke with Morrigan came as a cold shower. They were out in the woods, camping with the rest of the party and the new addition from the dwarven kingdom, Oghren. Amell wanted to have some time and privacy for Morrigan and himself, so he walked into the spider’s web unsuspecting. A storm was looming on the horizon, with lightning bolts painting the clouds occasionally and a low rumble accompanied by trickle of rain. “I wish to ask a question of you.” the witch began as soon as Amell reached her solitary campfire. “What is your opinion of ‘love’?” the man stopped and raised his brow. “Is this what was so important to call me over?” She turned back to nursing the fire “Yes. ‘Tis a valid question. You and I have been intimate for one.” Amell sat down on a log, suddenly not knowing what to say. “We have been… close, for some time now.” Morrigan went on “You are… impressive… in many ways, and you even protected me from Flemeth without hope of reward.” Amell studied her face. He had a creeping suspicion about what she was trying to say, yet he froze in place. “I feel… anxious, when I look upon you.” Morrigan confessed “I dislike this sense of dependency. ‘Tis a weakness I abhor. If this is “love”, I wish to ascertain that you do not feel the same.” Amell opened his mouth then shut it again immediately. How could he say he doesn’t feel the same, when he did? It grew slowly, over the time they spent together, and long after their first night in Morrigan’s tent. He came to value her. Her flaws, her strength, her wits. All of that and more. He swallowed and forced himself to speak. “And what if I do love you?” he rasped. “Then we are both fools, and we need to do something immediately.” she snapped. “I have allowed myself to become… too close. This is a weakness, for us both.” Amell slowly shook his head. “Love is not a weakness.” but his voice was indeed weak. “You are not listening to me.” Morrigan grumped. “Don’t be such a fool. This is for your own good.” she explained like she was talking to a petulant child. “I am not like other women. I am not worth your distraction… And you are not worth mine.” It felt like she stabbed a knife into an inflamed wound. Amell swallowed back his tears, his objections and his demons, steadying his shaking hand on the log next to his thigh.

“What’s your problem?” he finally managed to ask, only to get a frustrated tut. “Oh, because something must be wrong with me to refuse your charms. Forgive me if I do not jump at your every command like a well-trained warhound.” Amell let the insult fly past his ears. “You know very well that I don’t want you to jump at my command.” he sighed. “Please forgive me while I dance happily.” Morrigan snapped back “I don’t want to hurt you…” Amell tried again but was interrupted “Yes, you do. And I… I want it too.” she lowered her head, abandoning her spot next to the fire. “This is not right, is it? This is not how a normal woman acts, I can see it in your eyes.” Amell let out a bitter laughter. “You assume I know how a normal woman acts in any case.” He stood up and tried to get closer to her but she took a step backwards. “Release me!” She demanded “Just tell me that you wish to end this. Make me believe you, and I… will be grateful.” Amell however, did not want that. He wrapped his arms around her, hoping that she feels the rapid beating of his heart even under the dragonhide. “I don’t want this to end.” he whispered. The slap on his face came out of the blue. “You miserable, selfish bastard!” Morrigan cried and freed herself from Amell’s arms, leaving him out in the rain, nonplussed.

 

* * *

 

 

It never was this bad before. Amell could always shove his demons back to their respective niches in the dark corners of his mind, but tonight it was near-impossible. He distanced himself from the rest of the party, leaning to a rock in the far end of the camp, silently watching Alistair throwing a stick for Cat to fetch. Leliana played her lute, and sang a part of the Chant Amell wasn’t too inclined to hear. He found his eyes wandering back to the separate camp a few miles away. Morrigan’s words hurt him more than the slap on his face. Amell found himself turning the ring she gave him over his finger, wondering if he should just take it off and give it back to her. Then he let it go with a sigh as he saw Zevran approaching. “You seem troubled, my friend.” Amell would force a smile and deny it in any other day, but now he couldn’t even look at the elf. “I was just wondering if I’m really the right person to do this.” He answered. Zevran furrowed his brow. “And why is it concerning you? As far as I can tell, you did a fantastic job, no?” Amell’s laughter was bitter like raw elfroot. “I bet a few of our travelling companions have a different idea about that.” “Such as?” Zevran inquired casually, while leaning to the rock next to Amell, clutching the bottle of Antivan brandy he got from the mage, as a present for Satinalia. Amell was slightly surprised that he had it still. “Sten. Morrigan. Wynne. Oghren. Shale, even.” he listed his companions with a tired sigh. “I don’t understand why they keep following me if they think so little of me.” Zevran hummed and uncorked the bottle. “Maybe because in fact they don’t think little of you. Quite the contrary.” seeing Amell’s doubting stare, he elaborated. “Remember when Sten challenged you and you beat him?” The mage shuddered visibly. “Don’t make me remember… I thought he was going to kill me.” “But he didn’t. He was just testing your mettle.” Zevran shrugged. “Oh, thank you for clarifying.” Amell quipped. “He’s like a fish out of water. He can’t even say “hello” without causing offence, and is still perplexed by the fact that you’re a warrior and a mage at the same time. Now that you made his doubts go away, he’s following you like a loyal mabari.” Cat turned his head towards them when he heard the word “mabari”, but Alistair’s whistle and the juicy bone he presented proved to be much more interesting than the elf and the mage talking in the corner.

“Should I battle each of my companions and always remind them who’s in charge?” Amell frowned. “I thought they are people, and not a pack of wolves.” Zevran offered the bottle to him, and despite his utter dislike of alcoholic beverages, Amell took a swig. He coughed and gave the bottle back to the elf. “They take their frustration and doubt out on me, and I have no patience for it anymore.” he sighed. “I grew up like this. Always having to be a punching bag for the Templars or older apprentices.” he threw his hands in the air. “Is it a crime that I’m tired of it? I’m tired of mind games, manipulation, and persecution…” Zevran didn’t answer, only took a swig from the bottle and smiled when Amell held his hand out for it. “And I’m tired of being treated like a child.” the mage concluded his rant and drank. “How long since we’re out here?” Zevran asked to change subject. Amell shrugged. “Months.” “Oh, what I would give for a night in a proper bed…” the elf sighed longingly. Amell chuckled. “I could use one myself. Doubt I could sleep though.” “Well, is it any wonder you’re tired? When was the last time you had a full night’s sleep?” Amell raised his brow and tried to think back to the last time he could sleep peacefully. “Maybe when I was ten. But then again, the beds in the apprentice quarters were barely better than sleeping on the ground.” “I noticed that you stretch a lot lately.” Amell rubbed the back of his neck. “Yea… Back pain. It’s nothing serious.”

Zevran took another swig and gave the bottle over to Amell, who became much more talkative than he was before. He spoke about his fight with Morrigan and eventually, his emotional exhaustion and the fear of what it will cost him. “You can’t pour from an empty bottle, my friend.” Zevran patted Amell’s arm. “I suggest you take a break and focus on something else.” “Like what?” Amell inquired. “Yourself, for a change.” “I can’t be selfish.” Amell drawled as an answer. “Believe me; I’m thinking about myself enough.” “Then how about me?” the elf jested, and was genuinely surprised when his usual flirting was met with similar response. “Oh, I do think about you a lot as well…” Amell chuckled. “The way you look at me.” Zevran wondered if Amell was even aware of how seductive his voice alone sounded like. “Well my dear Warden, it would be a surprise if you wouldn’t notice how I look at you. You’re an attractive man.” Amell laughed. “You keep saying that like it’s true.” “I wouldn’t say so if it weren’t true.” Zevran shrugged. “Come on.” the mage’s smile stayed on his lips but left his eyes. “I look like death, and I know it.” “We’re out in the woods for months now. All of us look like death, _mi amor_.” “The older apprentices dubbed me Arcane Horror.” Amell commented. “I probably looked the part. Now I not only look like one, but feel like one as well.” He found it very hard to believe that Zevran – or anyone, including Morrigan – found him attractive. He and Jowan shared at least this trait that they were among the “ugly ducklings” of the Circle. Amell doubted that becoming a Grey Warden and padding the road 24/7 for nearly a year changed that much in his appearance. “I’m grateful for the compliment though.” he concluded. Zevran shook his head and took another draught of his bottle before closing it. He noticed Amell’s wincing and that he was trying to stretch the strained muscles of his back again and had an idea. “I think I could help you with that.” he commented. “What, my back?” Amell raised a brow. “I don’t believe…” he began to protest, but his words turned into a delighted groan as the elf’s fingers began to work the knots out of him. “It would be easier if you could remove your armour.” Zevran commented, still massaging Amell’s neck and trying to apply some pressure onto his shoulders through the rough dragonhide. “I… I don’t know.” Amell stammered and let out a loud moan when Zevran finally managed to get his hands under his collar. “You’re making so much noise everyone will think we’re doing something else entirely.” the elf laughed, but he knew he wouldn’t object if that would be the case. “I can’t help it.” Amell purred. “It feels so good…”

 

They ended up in Zevran’s tent after a few more swigs of that brandy, and the elf’s insistence to give Amell a proper massage. “You deserve some fun.” he said and Amell felt his throat run dry. “Very well.” he pressed out. He stood up and let himself be led into the tent, staggering a little. His head felt light and he found the idea of stripping out of his armour less and less threatening. He saw the gleam in Zevran’s eyes while he deliberately took his tabard and undertunic off slowly, slightly amused by the unconcealed desire radiating off from the elf. He pulled Zevran close in an impulse, and leaned down to kiss him. Zevran was surprised for a moment, but returned the kiss hungrily. His gloves, boots and trousers soon followed the rest of his clothing and Zevran’s as well until both of them were on the elf’s bedroll, limbs tangled. Zevran untied Amell’s ponytail letting the silvery grey tresses cover the mage’s face. He turned the human over and straddled his waist, casually continuing what he began outside. In fact, he was anything but casual, hearing the purrs and moans Amell made and the way he sometimes bucked his hips upwards made the space in Zevran’s smallclothes diminish rapidly. It came as another surprise when he heard Amell say “Why don’t you just rip my smalls off and take me already? I feel you want to…” It wasn’t the request itself – Zevran was about to do exactly that in time – but the undertone of sorrow hidden beneath desire that stopped him. “Are you quite sure?” He asked back, grazing his fingertips over the other man’s sides. Amell turned his head to look at him. “I am.” 

 

* * *

 

 

Amell woke up naked and having the mother of all hangovers. He was alone in Zevran’s tent, his clothes and armour neatly folded and prepared next to the bedroll. He didn’t remember last night, but according to the mess he was sleeping in, and the faint ache in his private parts made it clear what happened between him and the assassin. He hid his face in the pillow to prevent himself from crying out in frustration and shame. It wasn’t that he never fantasised about sleeping with Zevran. He was quite sure he wanted it last night too. He was also sure about everyone knowing it, and the judgement he will receive the moment he comes out of the tent. He just couldn’t take it. Not now. He was sure about one more thing: Zevran will never want to be with him again after this. Not even as a friend – how could he even see someone as a friend after sleeping with them? He heard those words again, the ones which were burned into his mind after Maker knows how many times he had let his body be used. _“You’ll never worth anything more than this.”_ He curled up into a ball, failing to ignore the scent of various bodily fluids and the stickiness of his skin. He felt disgusted by himself, but was too afraid to go out and wash it all off. It happened again.

Zevran expected to find Amell still in the bedroll inside the tent. He prepared a bowl with water for him to wash himself off and left him alone until the mage was dressed. He stopped Amell however, when he was about to leave. “I wish not to intrude on things you keep private.” he began on a low voice. “But you gave me some serious concerns last night.” Amell went red and turned his head away from the elf. “Please don’t tell me I drank too much and embarrassed myself, or ended up crying.” Zevran pushed him down and sat next to him. “You weren’t crying… at first.” He cleared his throat. “If you want me to sum up what happened: Both of us drank too much and things got juicy after I attempted to ease your distress and muscles with my unique talent at massage. It is my fault as much as it is yours.” He took Amell’s hand in his own and squeezed it. “You kept on drinking until I stopped you. You were…” he shook his head and couldn’t help the amused little smile creeping onto his face, only to disappear a moment later. “Well, I thought you have been possessed by a Desire demon. And you began to say things… I had partners who loved it when I said dirty things to them, or ones who loved to say dirty things to me, but…” He gave Amell’s hand another squeeze. “What you said was no different for a while, then it became more and more disturbing. I couldn’t just write it off as you being drunk and very horny.” Amell didn’t remember, but Zevran’s face told him that the elf remembered his words very well. “Maker, Zev… I’m sorry.” “No. Whoever broke you this much should be sorry.” came the answer. “Whoever made you feel like you want to die every time someone touches you, should be sorry. It’s not your fault.” Amell swallowed a knot in his throat, and glanced at his still bared arms. The old cut on his left was grinning at him tauntingly. “You told me about that one too.” Zevran added, catching the mage’s stare. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have burdened you with all this.” Amell sighed. “It’s okay.” Zevran let him go. “I told the others that you needed rest.” Amell nodded but walked out of the tent all the same. He wanted to get as far away as possible.

 

He didn’t get very far before he was confronted by the rest of the company. None of them said a word, but Amell felt more hurt by the all-knowing stares than he would by any judgemental words they could throw at him. “Yes, I know. It was irresponsible.” he began. “It will never happen again, I promise. Can we go now?” Everyone in camp avoided his stare and they picked up the tents and their belongings in silence. They were on the road to Denerim, when Alistair caught up with Amell, who insisted to go in the front line ahead of everyone, despite the obvious risks. “Um…” Alistair began not really looking at Amell. “You know; we weren’t judging you back then. We’re worried about you.” Amell exhaled loudly, frowning and keeping his eyes on the road. “No need. I’m fine, and my clash with Morrigan and rakish night with Zevran will not affect my ability to lead you into your deaths.”

 

* * *

 

 

For a long time, Amell truly felt like an empty cup. It became quite useful to be able to not feel a thing anymore. Zevran and Leliana seemed to sense that something was going on, maybe by the cold tone he was talking on lately. Morrigan was pleased – or at least she appeared to be – with Amell’s decision to break-up with her. Zevran shared one more bottle of Antivan brandy and Oghren shared a swill he found somewhere under the counter. Being drunk was better than being numb. Killing darkspawn came much more easily when they were supposed to be the distraction for a troubled mind.

Bearing the lies and the accusations of nobles was easier. Killing slavers in the alienage was outright pleasant, especially when Morrigan got pissed off for Amell once again choosing the lives of “some unsignificant elves” over an opportunity to raise his own power. Zevran chose Amell over his old partner, defended him even. The mage wondered how will he ever repay the elf.

Then it was all over when they walked into the trap the Queen laid for them. Amell didn’t even want to fight the poor, misguided knight who obviously believed all the lies the court and her hero fed her. Amell wondered if he’d ever commit something horrible, his friends would protect him the same, or justify his reasons the way Ser Cauthrien seemed to do for Loghain. Of course, Amell knew about the traitorous teyrn’s reputation, he even looked up to Loghain as a young boy. He remembered sneaking into the library long after curfew to snatch a book about the deeds of the famous King Maric and his friends, he then took with himself on his meetings with Anders, bearing the older boy’s constant teasing about it. Then he was left on the battlefield to die by the same man he came to view as a hero. Betrayed, same as his king. Same as his commander.

 

* * *

 

 

He woke up to Alistair shaking his bare shoulders. All around them were filthy hay and faint screaming. Amell didn’t feel so well either. “Thank the Maker you’re up… I thought they killed you this time.” Alistair said. The mage furrowed his brow and sat, looking down at himself. He was bruised, dirty, and only wearing his smallclothes for modesty. “What…” he tried to speak, but his voice was hoarse and broken. “We have been captured and transported here, to Fort Drakon.” Alistair explained. “You were knocked out for most of the time, but then some fellows took you away and when they brought you back, you looked like something Cat had chewed on.” Amell barely remembered anything from the last few days. He certainly felt like something a mabari took some time nibbling on, and the inflamed gashes and various other wounds he found on himself told him that not remembering might be a good thing.

Zevran and Oghren came to the rescue, so after a few healing potions shoved down on his throat, Amell felt good enough to stand. Alistair was no worse for wear, so they could all go back where the rescue party came from. It wasn’t a big surprise that everything was part of the political game that cast its web among the nobility everywhere. Amell wasn’t even mad. It was expected from either the Queen, or her father, or another noble. Eamon wanted to make Alistair the next king, despite his utter resistance. Amell had no choice but to convince his friend that the country needed him, and it was something bigger than all of them. Seeing the resignation in Alistair’s puppy eyes hurt more than anything. Amell felt like a hypocrite. He only hoped that his friend won’t turn out to be a figurehead for his uncles.

The Landsmeet ended with a bloody duel, and as Alistair’s sword parted the teyrn’s head from his neck, Amell felt a pang in his heart. He felt a spark of mercy towards the man, still saw the hero he once been despite his less-than-heroic deeds. Also, Amell saw a reminder. A warning. It only takes one misstep, one misguided, rash, foolish act and he will fall, just like the former hero of River Dane, the most trusted general of the king.

 

* * *

 

 

Alistair was confused, and he was happy to see his friend, though he couldn’t miss that something was wrong with Amell. For nearly a month now. The senior Warden they rescued from Arl Howe’s prison told them why only the Grey Wardens were capable of slaying an Archdemon. It was supposed to be Riordan’s work, but long before the man stopped talking, Amell knew it will be him. Once again, he felt like he has purpose. Or more precisely, felt like he was trained and chosen to do this ever since the beginning. He wouldn’t put it past Irving to put him up for slaying the dragon. He and Duncan knew each other from way back, after all. But he got no time to weave elaborate conspiracies in his mind, for Riordan shooed them away, to take some necessary rest before their final battle.

Amell was shocked to find Morrigan in his room. She told him why she came, and he wasn’t surprised. This was their last goodbye, and she wanted to save them by some twisted ancient ritual that consisted of conceiving a child on the eve of the final conflict. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t anything remotely intimate. It was going through the motions while trying desperately not to beg for her to change her mind, to stay. “After all is done, you will not see me again.” She said. Amell knew it for a long while now, Morrigan saying it out loud just made it official. He still wasn’t sure about this ritual of hers, when they were standing in front of the gates. Amell sent Morrigan away. He couldn’t bear to even think of her coming to harm, but he reminded himself that he had done what she wanted of him, and now whatever was between them is over. Seeing her form disappearing in the crowd felt like dying, but then again, Amell planned to do just that – killing the Archdemon, and perishing along with it.

 

* * *

 

 

The great, monstrous creature hit the tower as Riordan’s helpless body fell into his death. Amell and Alistair both saw, and darted off to the fort, to catch the Archdemon on the top of the building. Amell burned scores of darkspawn and kept his comrades alive through the assault of another score, barely acknowledging the fact that he was drained. Of mana, of strength, of will… everything. He downed a potion of the most potent kind and continued casting, his blade cutting through anything that came too close. They reached the top of Fort Drakon, and saw the hideous creature and the small army of darkspawn around it, engaged in battle with the Circle mages and some of the soldiers from Redcliffe. The dragon swept them all away like twigs. Amell followed Alistair and Zevran, but eventually got distracted by a smaller group of mages surrounded by hurlocks. He detoured to help them, and only saw the ogre when it was too late.

Alistair was a fine tactician, and despite his own assessment of his leadership skills, he managed to put the small company of his friends and a few other allies to land a blow to the Archdemon. He noticed Amell’s missing fireballs and curses, but thought that the mage had ran out of mana, and is using his rather fancy sword. Let’s say he was none the wiser. Leliana took a blow and nearly fell off the roof, Zevran almost got eaten, but was quick enough to run to a safe distance. The soldiers and the mages either lie dead or incapacitated, littering the roof like broken toys of a careless child. The ugly black dragon roared, fear made all of them back away from it. Alistair gathered his resolve, and leaped upon the serpent-like neck of the beast and sank his blade into it. It nearly threw him off, but he stood his ground. When the creature fell over, he couldn’t believe it was all done. He was alive, same as his friends down there. Alistair crawled away from the carcass of the Archdemon, aiming towards the limping Zevran and Leliana, but the pair stopped and looked at him with horror. Alistair saw movement behind them, so he didn’t turn around. Amell came bearing his bloody sword, the last remnants of a lightning spell crackling on his hands, and he was bleeding badly. Despite his condition, he ran towards Alistair with a blood-curdling battlecry. The other Warden thought only now to turn around, and saw that the Archdemon was anything but dead. Amell wanted to remedy that.

Everyone near and far saw the light of the explosion, and the darkspawn fled the battlefield. A small gathering of mages and adventurers remained on the top of the fort though, circling around the motionless body of the man who slew the beast. Alistair kept on shaking his friend, calling his name, and nearly squishing him on his breastplate when the mage finally opened his eyes. “Careful…” he groaned, but the soon-to-be-king got replaced by Zevran, who muttered something in Antivan – as far as Amell was concerned it was something insulting – and laughed between tears while clinging to him. Even the First Enchanter nodded towards him approvingly.

 

* * *

 

 

There were celebrations to be held, and of course, Alistair’s coronation to be the king of Ferelden. “Aren’t you nervous?” he poked Amell’s side, earning a grin from the mage. “Why would I be? I’m already done my part.” He looked over the crowd to see the flock of apprentices around Wynne and Irving, and part of him wanted to go over, and go back to the tower with them. A much bigger part just wanted them gone. Alistair followed his gaze and said “You know… I’ve been wondering something.” “Oh?” “You said that the Circle needs a bit more freedom… And I think I can help you with that.” Amell was genuinely surprised. “Would you do that? Wouldn’t it harm your relations with the Chantry?” Alistair shrugged. “They didn’t kill an Archdemon. A mage did it.” Amell laughed. “You know; I never have guessed that I will be proud to hear those four words in any context.” A loud noise was audible from the back of the hall, and both men turned towards the source. “Hear the crowd cheering?” Alistair smirked. Amell chuckled and listened for a moment. There was indeed a loud noise made by the mass of people gathered inside and around the palace. “Well, they want to see their new king I guess.” he commented. Alistair wrapped his arm around the mage’s shoulders and began to walk, pulling him along. “No. They want to meet their hero.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES:  
> \- Not much darlings, other than be prepared for an upload-tsunami, because this will be my last day off for a long while.


	7. One of Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a re-upload of the chapter formerly deleted.

_“I’ve been left out alone, like a damn criminal_

_I’ve been praying for help ‘cause I can’t take it all_

_I’m not done. It’s not over_

_Now I’m fighting this war since the day of the fall_

_And I’m desperately holding on to it all but I’m lost_

_I’m so damn lost_

_Oh, I wish it was over. And I wish you were here_

_Still I’m hoping that somehow_

_‘Cause your soul is on fire, a shot in the dark_

_What did they aim for when they missed your heart...” – “Shot in the Dark” – Within Temptation_

 

 

It wasn’t what Mhairi was expecting. She heard all the stories, the songs the minstrels sang, but when she saw the tall, lean man with grey hair approaching, she couldn’t help but be a bit disappointed. She thought the Hero of Ferelden will be someone intimidating, fearsome, worthy of the legend he carried around him. He didn’t even look like a mage, though rumour had it he was one. No robes, no staff… actually the man was carrying an ornate longsword strapped to his back. If anything, that one made Mhairi think. “Warden-Commander.” she greeted the man when he stopped in front of her. His face was all edges and he had eyes of the brightest blue Mhairi ever saw. He was also a lot younger than what she pegged him for, seeing his unusual hair colour. “I’m here to escort you to Vigil’s Keep.” The man nodded and gestured for her to lead the way, but made no other comment. “I’m looking forward working with you, commander.” she made another attempt at conversation. “Thank you.” Oh, so the rumours about him being mute weren’t true. The road towards the keep was long, and Mhairi kept her eyes open for any sign of danger or the Orlesian wardens, who were supposed to meet them near the gates. “Something’s not right…” she heard the commander’s voice, and before she could turn and ask what he means, a man appeared running towards them from the keep shouting for help. Amell drew his sword, and Mhairi mirrored his action. “Darkspawn!” the man yelled, and the wretched things poured out from the gates, chasing the unfortunate fellow. Mhairi bashed her shield into a charging genlock, cut another open, and suddenly felt the air’s temperature rising. She barely had time to dodge the fireball Amell cast into the crowd of darkspawn, then he also leapt forward, longsword in hand. Red flames licked the edges of the blade, and he swung it around like someone who knows how to wield a weapon. Mhairi was definitely impressed now.

 

They fought their way through the courtyard, the infirmary, saw some dwarf blowing a bunch of darkspawn to pieces, and Mhairi was positively scared of the new warden-commander’s expressionless face and deadly spells that could destroy an entire room full of the creatures. He seemed to be very fond of fireballs. Mhairi wasn’t. She had to dodge and cover before she was roasted along with the hurlocks and genlocks, so part of her hoped the warden-commander will run out of mana soon. Another part knew that it wouldn’t be so good. They heard a commotion from one of the rooms on the corridor they were passing through, and since they saved whomever they could on their way inside the keep, they followed the sounds of struggle. Mhairi and Amell exchanged a look before the commander kicked the door in, and both of them rushed inside. The smell of death and burning flesh greeted them along with a man roasting a Hurlock with a fireball. He shook his singed hands and turned around, seemingly startled when he saw the pair standing behind him. “Umm… I didn’t do it.” He stated. Amell’s heart skipped a beat. It can’t be him. After all, a lot of men had sand-blond hair and amber eyes, yes? The other man’s face lighted up with some kind of acknowledgment. “Hey, I recognize you from the Circle!” Amell’s blood pressure was steadily rising, along with the heat on his palm. He tried to calm down before the blond man in front of him ends up the same way as the darkspawn, and apparently two Templars. Following his eyes, the mysterious man began to explain “I… I know what they’ve been saying about me, but this? Not my doing.” He pointed behind his back with his thumb. “Oh, don’t get me wrong I’m not broken up about them dying, to be perfectly honest. Biff there made the funniest gurgle when he went down.”

 

Amell glanced to the dead Templar behind the blond man. “You killed all these darkspawn by yourself?” he definitely didn’t sound impressed, perish the thought. Okay, Amell never was one for deception. He was impressed. And he feared that little fuzzy feeling that began to grow inside. It had little chance to be caused by today’s rations. “Of course. Well, they helped a little.” The man answered, and a crooked sneer occupied his features. “Before they tragically died.” Amell cleared his throat. Mhairi stepped closer, but didn’t say a word, so the blond introduced himself. Probably to her. “I am Anders, at your service. Mage, and wanted apostate.” Mhairi wasn’t impressed. “An apostate? At Vigil’s Keep?” Anders stepped closer. “You weren’t here when we arrived. I would have remembered such a lovely woman as yourself.” Amell fought back the urge to imitate gagging. He was almost twenty, couldn’t act like a kid anymore after all. “We were just stopping here on our way back to the tower. Just a short rest, they said, and now they’re dead. Such a shame.” Anders said without any hint of remorse in his voice. “The Templars captured me and were taking me back. And then you know, darkspawn attacked. Could be a sign, yes?” Amell sighed, and looked towards the open door. “I could really use your help here.” He pressed out. Anders instantly replied with “Then you have it.” Mhairi seemed suspicious. “Are you sure about this, commander?” Amell thought he’ll have to have a little heart-to-heart with her after all is done here. Anders turned to her and said “I can’t say I’m fond of these darkspawn even though I’m no Grey Warden.” He turned back to Amell. “Let’s deal with them now, and we can discuss what comes later…later.” “Works for me.” Amell shrugged then led the three of them out of the room, right into the waiting arms of a small company of hurlocks.

 

* * *

 

 

It took him a great deal to concentrate on blasting the darkspawn, and keeping Mhairi out of the fire at the same time. Anders was indeed a great help, and soon another group of survivors went to the courtyard. Amell thought they were doing good, actually. Then he saw a familiar red mane and beard, heard the shriek or a falling shriek, and there was good old Oghren swinging his axe, only stopping to wave his hand at him. Amell waved back, and thought that someone probably sent out invitations for the ghosts of his past. Anders was one thing, he can deal with him later, but Oghren… what did he even do here? Didn’t he have a family to care for? Just what he needed, really. Another dysfunctional drunkard, like Amell himself wasn't enough. After a short introduction and some cheerful insult-throwing, the company moved on, now with Oghren among their ranks. He and Mhairi made the front row, so Amell got stuck in the back with Anders. “I recognize you from the Circle.” Amell repeated the other mage’s speech from before. “Really? This is all what eighteen years of friendship means to you?” Anders made a low chuckle. “No, but please tell me why is it any business of Cutiepie McChainmail and Deathbreath Stonebrain?” Amell sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, ruining his ponytail. “I doubt they are listening. So?” Anders was still grinning. “So what?” Really, what? Amell wanted to ask a million questions all at once, but before he could voice even one of them, Mhairi – or as Anders baptised her “Cutiepie McChainmail” – called for him. “Commander, over here!” She was kneeling beside one of the knights. Amell knelt beside her, and took one glance at the man to know he’s beyond help. Anders was very nice and even voiced this in his stead. “Poor man’s beyond healing magic. Maybe a shot of whiskey for the pain?” “I like the way you think.” Oghren added. In the meantime, Amell learned that the darkspawn attacking the keep were led by one who could talk. According to a dying man. And who wouldn’t believe dying people? It’s not like they had any reason to lie…

 

…But when they saw the ugly creature on top of the keep, Amell wished this whole crap to be a delirious nightmare of a dying brain. The darkspawn kicked an unfortunate soldier over the battlement’s banister while saying something like “It has ended just as he foretold.” Anders exchanged glances with Amell, and couldn’t help but utter “No shit, it does speak.” They had no more time to be surprised because the talking monstrosity went over to a hostage, who must have been the keep’s seneschal, if the poor dying knight’s last words were correct. “We’ll be taking this one gently…” the creature said and Amell would have burst out laughing if the situation weren’t so dire. The thing held a vicious looking blade over the seneschal’s throat. “On my mark, one…two…” Amell signalled, and the small company attacked the darkspawn before they could kill the hostage. They apparently interrupted its speech. A pity. Amell threw a fireball at the creature, hearing Anders shouting something like “Suck on a fireball” at the same time, and felt the heat of his fellow mage’s spell singe his ear. Anders shook his hands. Seemed like fire wasn’t really his element. He resorted to Winter’s Grasp and Cone of Cold from then. Amell swung his longsword around, hitting armour, cutting flesh and bone, and sometimes breathing fire… Or at least the minstrels always made it like he was breathing fire, like a dragon. In fact, he was just hurling fireballs. 

 

* * *

 

 

Seneschal Varel was pretty grateful for the rescue, less grateful for the third degree burns he probably got during the fight. After Anders healed him, he looked over the banister, and frowned. “Hm. Soldiers on the road. I hope they will be more hospitable than our previous guests.” Amell felt like he was more than done with the day. He exhaled sharply, then followed the seneschal down to the courtyard, his companions closely behind him.

His initial bad mood eased somehow when he saw Alistair approaching in that shiny golden armour of his that reminded Amell of the other one king Cailan wore before he died at Ostagar. He hoped it was a sort-of reminder for the current king, and not some foreboding sign. He liked Alistair. His mood turned darker when he saw the Templars following the king. “It looks like I arrived a bit late. Too bad. I rather miss the whole darkspawn-killing thing.” Alistair babbled, while Amell and the seneschal knelt down like people who knew their manners around royalty. Anders stood defiantly. Always the rebel. “King Alistair!” Mhairi was a fan. Now if Amell only knew it sooner… “I wanted to give the Wardens a formal welcome.” Alistair explained. “But I surely wasn’t expecting this. What’s the situation?” Seneschal Varel filled Alistair in while Amell glanced over his entourage, while rising from his position. The Templars eyed him and Anders suspiciously, especially the Templar lieutenant, a woman who was vaguely familiar for Amell. “At least the Hero of Ferelden is here and alive… That’s something, right?” Amell caught Alistair’s sad conclusion of the events. “Looks like you’ll need to re-join the Wardens after all.” Amell jested. “Toss the throne aside, spend my time adventuring at your side, like the old times? Very tempting.” Alistair answered.

 

He sighed and made his trademark “sad puppy” face that Amell suspected to cause unprepared handmaidens and lady-knights to swoon. “You have quite the task ahead of you.” Alistair stated. “Really, I’d like to stay and fight darkspawn, but you’re alone. For the moment.” Oghren decided to make his presence known. “Hey, what am I? Chopped nug-livers?” “From the smell it’s not a bad guess.” Anders riposted. Oghren grumbled on “I came here to join the Grey Wardens, and looks like you need the extra hands! Now where’s that giant cup? I’ll gargle and spit.” Amell tried to shield his mind from the mental imagery, but in vain. “You’re not allowed to spit.” he deadpanned. Oghren snickered. “That’s what I always say.” Amell had a few ripostes to that, but Mhairi beat him to it. “I suppose all is welcome in this dire time.” Anders also added his own two coppers. “Joining the Wardens eh? Well, good luck with that.” And this was the moment when the tension in the air seemed to rise to its peak. The Templar-lieutenant took a step forward. “King Alistair! Your Majesty, beware! This man is a dangerous criminal!” Alistair waved his hand “Oh, the dwarf is a bit of an ass, but I wouldn’t go that far…” “She means me.” Anders stepped forward and stopped next to Amell, hanging his head. “This is a dangerous apostate, and on the way to the Circle to face justice.” Anders raised his head and stared into the Templar’s eyes with the same fire Amell fell for long ago. He was definitely falling for the guy again. Dammit.

 

“Oh, please. The things you people know about justice would fit into a thimble. And I’ll just escape again, anyhow.” Amell tried not to look at him, but he caught a glimpse of fear on his old friend’s features. He furrowed his brow, and tried very hard not to say something disrespectful to the Templar when she went on about how she will not rest until Anders is hanged for his supposed crimes. “I will see you hanged for what you did here, murderer!” “Murderer? But those Templars were…” Anders gave up and hung his head again. “Oh, what’s the use? You don’t believe me anyhow.” Amell had an idea forming in his head, but wasn’t sure about it just yet. Alistair looked at Anders and at the Templar – Rylock was her name, if Amell’s memory was correct – and back at Anders before saying “It means there isn’t much to say, unless… You have something to add, Commander?” All right, now or never… “I hereby conscript this mage into the ranks of the Grey Wardens.” Amell pointed at Anders.

 

“You what?” Anders asked. “What? No!” Rylock reacted. “I will allow it!” Alistair smiled. “Welcome aboard, kid!” Oghren nudged Anders, who nearly fell over. “Congratulations, ser mage.” Mhairi added. “Me? A Grey Warden?” Anders grinned. “I guess that would work.” Alistair said his goodbyes, and went back to the road with his entourage and the Templars. Rylock wasn’t happy about the king’s decision, but Amell couldn’t care less. His mind was occupied with something that involved neither Templars nor kings: The Joining. He wanted to talk to Oghren and Anders, and even Mhairi about what they may face, but he simply didn’t have the time. He had some help from the seneschal, who said the words while Amell prepared the darkspawn blood and lyrium and maybe for the first time today, fear gripped his heart. What if the recruits don’t survive? Amell could very well live with the thought of collateral damage, but this was more personal… too personal. Oghren was the first, and he – not so surprisingly – didn’t much as flinch. Anders passed out and writhed on the floor before going still, and Amell felt his own heart stop for a moment before the seneschal informed him that the mage is alive. Amell permitted himself to breathe. Mhairi however, wasn’t lucky. Amell felt his heart sink, but on the other hand, he was happy that no more recruits died than one.

 

* * *

 

 

“You. Bloody. Bastard.” Amell heard Anders’ voice and raised his head from his book. The man was dashing in blue and grey. “You’re welcome.” Anders was still glaring at him, so he put the book down. “Care to join me for dinner?” Anders shook his head. “I don’t know whether to kiss you or kill you.” “Can I choose?” Amell was in a light mood. Almost happy. And he couldn’t really name its cause even if his life depended on it. Anders finally settled with nudging him and nodded towards the keep’s mess hall. “So… Hero of Ferelden?” he broke the silence, and Amell couldn’t help but grin. “They call me that, yeah.” He had so many stories to tell… If Anders wants to hear them, of course. The two of them walked into the kitchen and to the mess hall in silence, and sat to a table with their respective rabbit stews. “Why did you do it?” Anders asked. “I mean, I’m grateful for saving me, but you had no reason…” Amell put his spoon down, and didn’t dare look up from his food. No reason? Was this the same Anders he was inseparable from for almost all of his life? “You’re my friend, Anders.” he grumped and raised his face. “Is that reason enough for you to go against a Templar?” “Why? You can’t see it in me?” If Amell sounded offended well, he was.

 

“There are perks for being the Commander of the Grey Wardens, I guess.” Anders grinned. “Oh?” Amell raised his brow, already forgetting the burn he got from Anders. “Well, you can call dibs on people, for example.” The blond went on. “Yea, next time I invoke the right of conscription I’ll definitely shout “dibs on this one” to the poor sod I want to recruit. If folks didn’t already think us Wardens are crazy, that will surely convince them.” Anders laughed. Amell felt like smiling too. “I missed you; you twat.” he said. Anders shrugged. “Well now that you called dibs on me, I guess I’ll stay for a while.” They ate their stew, Anders went for a second and a third bowl, and Amell tried to fill him in about the “perks of being a Warden”. The hunger, the nightmares, the taint. “…So you mean I have thirty years to live, tops.” Amell nodded. “And can have all the steamy sex without worrying about unwanted kids much.” he added. “This shit near- sterilizes us.” Anders put his glass down. “Now I don’t want to thank you for calling dibs on me…” Amell wanted to say something, but couldn’t. He didn’t really know what would be appropriate.

 

“Drinks on me?” he asked, waiting for Anders to nod. “Maker, yes.” the other man stood up. Amell followed. They went to Amell’s quarters, picked his flask up and headed for the battlements. They sat and drank in silence for a while. “You’re here to clean up the mess those Orlesian Wardens were supposed to. Or at least help you with it?” Anders broke the silence. “I’m the captain of this sinking boat, yes.” Amell commented aridly. “But hey, no more darkspawn!” Anders made a crooked grin. “Then let’s drink to that!” They both took their respective swig from the flask. “So...” the blond mage went again after a short pause “How did you end up being a Warden? I thought the Circle finally succeeded in beating you into submission.” Amell chuckled bitterly. “They almost did.” He kicked a pebble away and watched it bounce around the wall until it landed in the Courtyard. “After they locked you up, the First Enchanter gave me a heart-to-heart. He thought he knows a better way for me to let my anger loose than to be around you and get into all sorts of trouble.” Anders took another swig. “This is how I began my training as an arcane warrior.” Amell carried on. “Irving and Greagoir gave me enough shit to do to forget any wandering thoughts about escape... Besides, I was still a tad pissed at you.” Anders laughed. “Oh, come on... I apologized already.” Amell bonked his fist to Anders’ side. “You froze my legs you wanker! And took my staff with you.” It wasn’t a pleasant memory, but he shook it off with a joke. It was the first time Amell got betrayed by someone he thought of as a friend... And more in Anders’ case.

 

* * *

 

They somehow ended up in the courtyard after drinking for a while. It was confusing, like that two and a half or so years spent apart never really happened, like there was no Blight or the monstrous attack on the Vigil was only a nightmare. Anders wanted to check on the infirmary, and Amell stopped to see if there’s anyone in need of help with anything. A dwarf by the name of Voldrik found him, and they were discussing plans and funds for the old keep’s fortification, when Anders returned and nudged Amell. He said his goodbye to the dwarf and followed his friend. There was a statue of Andraste in the middle of the courtyard, and Anders walked right to it and whistled. “Look at that! Do you think Andraste really was that much of a looker?” Amell eyed the statue then shrugged. “It’s only a statue. I doubt it was made in any sense of realism in mind.” A short pause later the blond turned his head away from the statue. “I wonder what Andraste would think about the Circle of Magi.” Amell snorted. “I bet she’d be bloody confused by them.” Anders kicked a piece of dirt away with the nose of his boot. He raised his gaze back at the statue’s expressionless marble face and the full moon above them.

 

“I like to think that Andraste was trying to make people find their own way to the Maker. And what she said about magic supposed to serve man wasn’t an indication towards putting us mages on leash and in cells for simply being born the way we are.” Amell smiled and locked gaze with Anders. The sense of nostalgia was overwhelming. “I agree.” Anders laughed. “Says the fellow mage.” Amell also permitted himself to chuckle. He began to feel the long day and even longer night behind him, as his eyelids felt heavy, and he still had plenty of work to do. “Listen, why don’t you go to your quarters and rest?” he asked, pinching his nose bridge to keep himself from yawning.  Anders was about to answer when the runner appeared in front of them. “Commander, there’s something that requires your attention!” Amell raised a brow. “Which is?” “There is a thief the guards caught shortly before the darkspawn attack. He took four Wardens before they could subdue him. The guard captain would like you to deal with the thief discreetly.” Amell dismissed the runner and groaned, rubbing his eyes. “There goes my plan for a nice long sleep.” he sighed. “Hey, I can back you up, if you need me.” Anders offered. Amell nodded and together they went to catch Oghren in case they need some muscle. Whoever this guy was, he took down four Grey Wardens after all.

 


	8. The Moment of Truth

_“Somewhere in time I will find you and haunt you again_

_Like the wind sweeps the earth_

_Somewhere in time when no virtues are left to defend_

_You fall in deep_

_I was a liar in every debate_

_I rule the forces that fuelled your hate_

_When the cold leaves my heart it will come to an end_

_And quietly I’ll go to sleep…” – “The Haunting” - Kamelot_

 

Nathaniel was sitting in that Maker-damned cell for three days now. He heard some of the commotion from outside, but since his belongings were locked in a chest at the far end of the dungeon, he was unable to pick the lock and use whatever was going on as a distraction for his escape. Besides, he was not going to just simply run away. Not before his purpose is fulfilled. He almost lost the will to do it in the last three days. Now all he wanted was to gather some of his family’s belongings and go. But the moment he saw the dungeon’s door opening and the tall, lean man with silver hair entering behind the guard his blood began to boil. This bastard was the one who killed his father. He had to pay for it. “Ah, commander! Good thing you’re here.” the guard turned from Nathaniel’s cell to the newcomers. “This one’s been locked up for three nights now. Good men died, while this one was protected in his cell.” The commander’s face was expressionless as he eyed Nathaniel from his spot in front of the cell’s door. “Who is he?” he asked and Nathaniel was surprised at the man’s tone. He anticipated someone slightly more arrogant, being a hero and all. The question was simple, and sounded almost sheepish. “He won’t give his name.” The guard answered. “All I know is he was caught poking around in the estate in the middle of the night. I would say he’s just a thief, but it took four Grey Wardens to capture him.” the commander looked back at Nathaniel with a hint of amusement.

 

“Yes, I heard about that.” he said. Nathaniel was still angry, and the aloofness of the strange man talking about him with the guard like he wasn’t even there just made him angrier.  “Give us a moment, I’d like to talk with him.” the warden-commander ordered, and the guard opened his cell. Nathaniel felt the air getting significantly colder as the other man stepped in. Or was his mind playing tricks?  “Well if it isn’t the great hero, conqueror of the Blight and vanquisher of all evil.” He sneered. “Aren’t you supposed to be ten feet tall, with lightning bolts shooting out of your eyes?” Amell rolled his eyes. “Yea well, don’t believe everything what minstrels sing. I can’t turn into a dragon, and the sun happens to not shine through my ass either. I know, I know. I live to disappoint.” Nathaniel wasn’t disappointed, rather surprised. He furrowed his brow and kept on giving the warden-commander the eye. “Somehow I thought the Hero of Ferelden would be more… Impressive.” He concluded, then decided to show his cards. “I am Nathaniel Howe. My family owned these lands until you showed up. Do you even remember my father?”

 

It hit Amell like a boulder hurled at him by an ogre. The scowl, the nose that rather resembled a beak, the sneer… “You’re the arl’s son.” “Ow. Awkward.” Anders inserted. “I came here… I thought I was going to kill you… to lay a trap for you.” Nathaniel carried on with his confession. “But then I realised I just wanted to reclaim some of my family’s things. It’s all I have left.” Oghren grunted, Anders raised his brow and leaned to the wall, Amell was thinking. “What would you do if I let you go?” he asked. Nathaniel made a scoff that almost sounded like a snicker. “I suppose I would come back and try again. But next time you won’t be able to catch me.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Look, whatever my father did, shouldn’t harm the rest of my family. The Howes are pariahs now… which one of us left. It’s all thanks to you. And now you get to decide my fate.” He chuckled bitterly. “Ironic isn’t it?” Amell sighed and was eyeing the piss stain in the corner of the cell, rather than looking at Nathaniel. “Just how much do you know about your father?” He pressed out, finally gathering enough strength to look back at the man in the cell. “If you’re asking me if I knew what he was up to, the answer is no. I was sent to the Free Marches, long before the war broke out.”

 

So he wasn’t even around. Amell nodded, and felt an unexplainable sympathy for Nathaniel. Despite him being the son of Rendon Howe, he seemed to be nothing like that man. “I think I know what I will do with you.” he stated. “Already?” Nathaniel sounded amused if not surprised. “Then let’s get on with it.” Amell called the guards back. “I call dibs on the Howe.” Amell pointed at Nathaniel. “You what?” the latter asked confusedly. The guard also looked like he has trouble understanding the mage, so Amell sighed and corrected himself “I conscript the thief. He’ll be a Grey Warden.” he turned towards the prisoner “And why is everyone’s first reaction to me saying this is “you what”?” Nathaniel shook his head. “No way. Hang me first!” Amell furrowed his brow. “Pardon me, but I’m no necromancer. What use would I have of a corpse?” Seneschal Varel stopped next to Amell just when he finished his question. “Do I want to know?” he squinted at Amell. “Probably not.” Anders answered in his stead. “Did you know this is Nathaniel Howe?” Amell asked the seneschal, gesturing at Nathaniel like they were having tea and not standing in the dungeon. “A Howe?” Varel raised his brow. “It figures they showed up. The Howes are formidable enemies, ser. Have you decided the prisoner’s fate?” Amell nodded. “I conscripted him.” Varel nodded and turned to Nathaniel. “Come with me then, ser! Let’s see if you survive the Joining.”

 

* * *

 

 

Nathaniel survived. Amell had more things to do in the following days than he could ever manage, but at least it kept him from thinking. His companions disapproved of his decision to conscript Nathaniel into their ranks, Oghren went and compared the Howe to Zevran, and urged Amell to double-check his meals for poison from now on. Anders just laughed at him and told him that his blind trust will be the end of him someday. Amell already knew it. A demon said the same during his Harrowing. Somehow he didn’t think he made a mistake with Nathaniel. Three days later, the man was on his feet and made himself useful. Turned out, he was a well-trained scout and archer. Amell had few words with him ever since their long and awkward chat in the dungeon, and he planned to remedy that in the scarce free time he had. The cantina was the only place he could meet his fellow Wardens all at once without having to barge in to the barracks, so he chose to spend dinnertime there the next day. It seemed like Nathaniel, Anders and Oghren already got along more-or-less. He chose the spot next to Anders, and sat down to their table with his own bowl of fowl soup.

 

“Hey there, boss!” Oghren greeted Amell after belching. “That would qualify as a low-level earthquake, if not for the smell.” Anders jested. “I bet it could kill a darkspawn.” Oghren hooted, and even Nathaniel permitted himself a wan smile. “I take it you three have fun?” Amell inserted himself into the conversation. “I’m just trying to figure out how to survive the night locked together under the same roof with Oghren.” Anders said, then he leaned closer to Amell, and added on a shushed voice “He has gas. He’s going to kill us all if you don’t do something about the beans on the menu.” Amell snickered. “Well sorry, but as long as the keep’s walls are only kept together by birdshit and mistress Woolsey keeps a tight grip on the key to the treasury, beans have to do.” Anders squinted at Amell who put a spoonful of soup into his mouth. “A simple “no” would suffice.” he said. “No.” Amell shrugged. “That was very Qunari of you.” Anders jested. “I travelled with one. Had time to practice my way of showing rejection.” Amell replied. “Became quite close actually, after giving him some cinnamon rolls.” “It looks like you had some strange bedfellows in the past year.” Anders nudged him. “Oghren was telling us some stories about your time together.” Amell squinted at the dwarf and said on a mock-insulted tone “What were you telling these poor folks about me behind my back?” Oghren snickered. “Heh. Just the usual, boss. That you turned into a dragon, breathed fire and took down throngs of darkspawn and crazy cultists on your own.” Amell sighed and rubbed his temples. “Again with the fire-breathing thing. I can’t turn into a dragon, no matter how much I wish to.”

 

They joked around and traded stories for a while before Nathaniel derailed the conversation with a simple question. “I was wondering something, commander…” Anders had a bad feeling about it, and as he saw the look on Amell’s face he did as well. “My father… Did he… Was it quick?” Amell was staring at Nathaniel for a few seconds before answering. “I won’t lie to you: It was a battle, and it was ugly as ugly can get. It was still more merciful than being hanged for treason.” In fact, he was lying. Nothing in arl Howe’s death was merciful. He still remembered the man’s last words _“I deserved more”_ which Amell answered with some sarcastic quip before engulfing the late arl in flames. Nothing but a pile of ash remained, which later found its way to the remaining family, at least Amell hoped so. “Well, I guess I have to live with not knowing.” Nathaniel sighed. “I’m sorry.” Amell answered, and suddenly no one was eating or joking anymore. Anders excused himself early on, knowing he won’t be able to stomach the weighty talk more than the beans, so he went to the infirmary to check on the wounded. Amell was sitting in quiet, but in his mind the sounds of battle and the screams of burning men echoed. He burned them. There was a reason for him to be slightly angry at the retelling of his adventures always picturing him “breathing fire”. While fire was in fact “his element”, he was always adept at casting offensive elemental spells fiery in nature, he hated that losing of sense and control that came with it. He harmed friends as much as enemies, and he felt no need to be praised for such a thing. More so because as much as he hated losing control, he loved it the same. He loved the raw power of a force of nature let loose from his hands, as the heat extended from his core to the ever-growing ball of flame he cast into the fray or onto an unsuspecting darkspawn coming too close.

 

* * *

 

 

Anders had work to do, so he wouldn’t have time to think. He tended bruises, cleaned wounds, bandaged what he couldn’t heal with magic, and kept going until he felt like falling over. It was late at night when he returned to his bunk in the barracks and collapsed onto it, only to be shaken by Oghren the next morning. “Rise and shine, sonny. Boss wants to talk to us.” Anders cursed under his nose and gathered himself up. The others already left, so he could claim the washroom for himself. After tidying up to a socially acceptable degree, he ran out to the courtyard where he found Amell talking with a blacksmith who had the most annoying tone of voice Anders ever had the misfortune to hear in the break of day. “Common metal is so mediocre. Herren, you abuse me so much, I don’t even know why I put up with you anymore!” the bald man with an enormous moustache whined while another one behind a counter sighed. Amell seemed to be amused, barely hiding his smirk. “Oghren told me you wanted to talk.” Anders nudged his fellow mage. “Indeed.” Amell nodded. “Master Wade, I promise if I ever come across any unusual sort of metal, or dragonscale or anything, you will be the first to know. Deal?” The whiny man grumbled something in response, which his aide translated. “He agrees.” Amell turned to Anders. “Sorry. Let’s talk in the cantina, the others are already there, I reckon.”

 

They were there indeed, having their breakfast in unusual silence. “Why so blue?” Anders asked as he sat down to the table across Nathaniel. “Lad had one of those nightmares.” Oghren grumbled. It was hardly surprising, yet none of them spoke for a short while until Amell decided to fill them in with plans for the day. “All right, I know you guys are just as bored out of your minds as I am, so how about we hit the road up to Amaranthine, and find this guy, Colbert? Seneschal Varel says he might have a lead for us about some darkspawn that needs killing.” All of them stood up. “I guess it’s a yes.” Amell concluded. “Meet me at the gates, we’ll leave in a half-hour.”

 

* * *

 

 

The journey to the city of Amaranthine was mostly eventless. They came across some refugees also heading for the city, but no darkspawn or bandits. To pass the time, the small company began to recite songs they knew. Oghren sang a piece of an old dwarven song about a duster who went to the Deep Roads and ended up some pieces shorter, and Nathaniel sang “ _Long way to Amaranthine_ ” and even his spirits seemed to be lifted for a while. “Can we please not sing about walking?” Anders asked. “Or dismemberment. I swear if any of you starts singing “ _Duster, I hardly knew ye_ ” again, I’m leaving!” Amell turned back at him. “What about “ _The Demon you know_?”Anders made a disgusted noise. “Nah. It reminds me of Templars.” Amell shrugged and stuck to whistling the song until they reached the rocky road leading up to the city gates to Amaranthine. As soon as they approached the farmhouses a few yards away from the gates, Anders inhaled long and loudly, then a contented smile appeared on his face. “Can you smell that?” He asked Amell, who stopped next to him. “That is the smell of freedom. It comes complete with the smell of dogs and dust, but the freedom is in there too.” “I can only smell bacon. And pie.” He was left hungry after his meagre meal before they left the Vigil. “Oh, the fact that there are pies to smell is a step-up for me.” Anders replied. “I’ve had a pieless existence… more or less.” Amell slapped his back. “Then we shall remedy that pielessness as soon as we get over with asking around for that hunter who found something in the Knotwood Hills.” Anders chuckled “Sounds good for me. I’m starting to get enough of marching around.” He sighed “All I want is a pretty girl, a decent meal, and the right to shoot lightning at fools.” Amell laughed. “I think you aim too low.” Anders chuckled. “True. I want a harem, a banquet, and the ability to rain fireballs on every Templar in creation.” his smile stayed when he looked up at the sky. “Never mind me. Now and then I recall that I’m not sitting in a cell, and I have to smile, that’s all.” Amell squeezed him then let him go. “If I can have a say in it, you’ll never sit in a cell again.” He said firmly. Anders chuckled. “You’re sweet. Why aren’t you in charge of everything again?” Amell grinned and turned back to the road, where Nathaniel eyed the battlements of the city-gate. “My father used to put the heads of traitors up above the gate on display. I guess he’s lucky that his didn’t end up there.” Somehow his monologue killed the mood for pies. They found Colbert and his elf companion, Micah among the refugees. After a short exchange of pleasantries – Colbert wanted to pick a fight with Amell – the hunter told them the tale of a chasm teeming with darkspawn in the Knotwood Hills. Amell supposed it was a breeding ground, and took the hunter’s tale seriously despite Anders’ doubts. “Come on, a horde of darkspawn and they just ignored two screaming and panicking men. Something’s fishy, and it’s not the pie.” “Maybe.” Amell agreed. “But checking it out won’t hurt, would it?”

 

* * *

 

Anders wanted Amell to take his words back. After days of climbing the rocky and serpentine roads to the Knotwood Hills, everything was hurting. His feet, his back, his hands because he braced himself on them when he fell over after tripping and nearly falling into a rift, even his head. He hated everyone and everything, and he never stopped voicing his distress. “Will you stop whining?” Oghren asked from the front row of their company. “We won’t want the darkspawn to run away because of it.” “I’m more concerned of them attacking us because we got careless.” Amell added, but then he ordered them to stop. “We can make camp here, if you’re tired.” Anders was grateful for the opportunity, but he wanted to get over with the whole thing, so he can go back to the Vigil’s infirmary and the endless packs of elfroot waiting to be crushed into a health poultice or two. 

They continued their journey on the next day, and found a rickety bridge over what pretty much looked like the rift from Colbert’s tale. Of course they had to go and see if it collapses under their collective weight. Anders couldn’t stop himself from commenting. “Oooh, it’s an unstable crumbling chasm! Let’s go and play in it!” He meant it as sarcasm, but the way Amell and Oghren quickened their pace towards the foreboding abyss yawning in front of them, Anders started to doubt that they understood it. “Um… Hey, I wasn’t serious.” He added, just to be sure. “I know.” Amell answered, solidifying Anders’ belief about his mental condition. Nathaniel caught up with him, and mumbled something about falling off a set of stairs once, identical to the ones they were descending right now. Anders shook his head. “You are all mad. You hear me?” This earned a low chuckle from Nathaniel and a smirk from Amell. “And that makes you what? You’re one of us.” Anders shrugged and put on what he called “his charming face”. “Well, someone has to look out for you after all.”

 

The set of stairs ended deep in the chasm, and they could finally take a good look around. They were in the middle of something that looked like a ruined dwarven city’s gates and outskirts. Massive pillars were fallen over, creating obstacles they climbed on top of, to see how they should proceed. Anders found a trinket made of a rabbit’s leg, and he pocketed it for good luck. They found some elfroot – the damned weed grew literally everywhere – and ran into a pack of deepstalkers that got eliminated by a fireball and some of Nathaniel’s arrows. Oghren was pissed. He wanted to have fun too. Now that they cleared the part on the surface, Amell wanted to see what’s in the ruins. They moved in relative silence, only Oghren’s armour making noise. From pillar to bent pillar, until they ended up in a crossroads. Amell signalled stop and stuck on the wall, his companions could see why in seconds. A small pack of darkspawn dragged a dwarf towards the depths of the ruins. The dwarf cursed and fought herself free after a while. The four Wardens appeared behind her when she drew her shortsword and axe. It was a short battle. Arrows and fireballs flew, Ice bolts froze hurlocks and two angry dwarves dealt with the rest. When it was all over and only a pile of smouldering ashes remained of the darkspawn, the dwarf removed her half-helmet and rubbed the sweat from her brow away. “Hey, thank you for helping me out. I’m Sigrun, from the Legion of the Dead.” She held her free hand out. Amell shook it. “Are you hurt?” he asked. “We can heal you, if you need it.”

 

Sigrun was thinking for a short while before shrugging. “I can’t really say… Everything hurts. I might just have a few broken ribs, nothing serious.” Anders furrowed his brow. “A few broken ribs can become something very serious if they pierce through your lungs or heart. Just sayin’.” Amell looked back at the dwarf. “He’s the healer. I wouldn’t argue with him if I were you. Let him check you for injuries, and in the meantime, you can tell us what happened to you.” Sigrun sighed and winced. “Fine.” she agreed and let herself shepherded onto a crumbled pillar’s base, where she sat down and began her tale. “Me and the rest of my company came here to investigate a darkspawn breeding ground, and kill the broodmothers. But there were too many…” she silenced. Anders cast a healing spell on her, amplifying the dim light in the cavern. “We were overrun by the darkspawn, and I got scared…” Sigrun tried to continue, but her voice broke. “I ran away.” she concluded. Amell sat down next to her. “It was a good choice.” he said. “Now you live to fight another day.” Sigrun frowned. “If you look at it that way…” Anders shook his head and cast another healing spell. Sigrun was slightly underestimating the damage she suffered. “We should wait here for a while, this can take a few more minutes.” he informed Amell, who nodded. Nathaniel and Oghren stood watch. Or rather Nathaniel, for Oghren couldn’t keep his eyes off of the fair dwarf lady. “We could come with you and see if more of your company survived.” Amell offered. “We are here for wiping out the breeding ground as well, so I think we could work together.” Sigrun seemed to lighten up. “That would be great. I can show you the way to Kal’-Hirol.”

 


	9. Descending

_“…Fight for your values and fight for your friends_

_Fight through this Blight, find the light at the end_

_Through the Age of the Dragon, through chaos and hate_

_The hands that will carry us home are touched by fate_

_Hold on, hold on to what you strive for_

_Hold on, hold on to what you fight for_

_Hope!” – “All as One” – Miracle of Sound_

 

And so they went after the little dwarf, Amell and Anders close behind while Oghren and Nathaniel made the rear of the squad. “Is it too late to tell you that I’m claustrophobic?” Anders asked, feeling the early signs of an impending panic-attack. His breathing was shallow and he barely could keep up with the rest of them. The darkness and the narrow spaces between blighted rocks felt like closing in on him. He felt a hand sliding into his. “Hang on!” Amell whispered. “We need you. Hold onto my hand as long as we don’t have to fight, if it makes it better.” Anders nodded. Just knowing he’s not alone in this damned dark pit was slightly comforting, though it did nothing for the feeling that he might be crushed by the walls any minute. The stone also had a substance on it that resembled rotting flesh, and smelled like it as well. It covered the whole cave, the road, the walls it even made strange growths and tentacle-like appendages. It was disturbing, to say the least. After they stumbled down a slope, Sigrun began to rush over to a building and an injured dwarf leaning to its wall. “Jukka!” she called for the other dwarf. Amell felt a sense of deja-vu. It was like his first night at Vigil’s Keep all over. A dying man he couldn’t save, rambling about talking darkspawn breeding an army. The dwarf’s last words were “Beware the children”, and he passed away. Sigrun was trying desperately to keep him among the living, even asked Anders for bandages, but it was way too late.

 

The rest of their descent into Kal’-Hirol was dark, and not just in the literal sense. Throngs of darkspawn inhabited the dwarven ruins, and the deeper they went, the thicker the layer of blighted flesh growths became. The stench was overwhelming, especially after one or two of Amell’s fireballs. “I’m gonna throw up.” Anders complained, and his complexion turned a bit greenish. Not that anyone would be able to see in the dark that was barely pierced through by their torches and magelights. He leaned to the wall and tried to breathe to chase away the feeling of his stomach’s contents making its way upwards. He had it the worst of all of them. Nathaniel had a slight case of aversion to darkness – he always kept on saying just how dark it was in the ruins – but nothing as severe as Anders’ claustrophobia. It was like he got sent back in time, back into a small cistern with dirty water dripping everywhere without a hint of light. The walls definitely came closer and closer until they were the only thing he could see. He couldn’t breathe. It was a matter of time before the hallucinations began. Someone or something was shaking him and called his name, but it wasn’t real. Only the walls were real. Suddenly he felt two arms around him and a voice telling him that he’s not alone. The walls retreated. For now.

 

Amell would lie if he’d say he wasn’t scared of Anders’ sudden breakdown. They were about to move on when the other mage just collapsed on the floor, curled up to a ball, and began rocking back and forth. Nathaniel, Oghren and Sigrun looked at him, he looked at them then back at Anders. Amell sighed and shook his head. “Set up camp here. We can’t move forward as long as he’s unwell.” With that he turned around and stepped over to his friend and disregarding what his subordinates might think of him, wrapped his arms around the other man and whispered into his ear. “Hey, hey I’m here. You’re not alone. We’re here.” He felt Anders’ arms lash out and wrap around his waist, so he almost fell over. At least he responded. “Better?” Amell asked after a minute or two spent with hugging and rubbing Anders’ back. “A little.” Anders mumbled into Amell’s warden armour. “Can you stand?” Amell asked. Anders made a painful smile. “I can stand you holding me.” Amell gave him a peck on the top of his head.

 

A little farther away from them, Sigrun smiled and turned to Nathaniel. “Are they together?” she asked. Nathaniel shrugged. “They have some sort of history, if that’s what you’re asking. But they didn’t tell, and we didn’t ask. They could be brothers for all I know.” Sigrun cocked her head to the side, sparing one more glance to the two mages locked in an embrace then she turned back to her tent. “I’d rather say ‘lovers’ instead of ‘brothers’ though.” she commented. “Why not?” Nathaniel replied. “Who knows what’s going on inside the Circle.” Sigrun chuckled. “I sense a lot of juicy stories.” Oghren made a disgusted noise. “They both have danglers, for Stone’s sake. And I know the Boss ain’t like that. He had something going on with that witch back then. Fine long legs she had…” Sigrun shrugged. “Well, now he’s pretty smitten by that other guy if you ask me.” Oghren shuddered. “Bah. Humans are weird. Mages are weirder. They are both, so it makes it double-weird or somethin’.”  Amell helped Anders to his feet and they came back to the camp. They took shifts in keeping watch – Anders was allowed to sleep full-time – and the discussion was over. They all had nightmares and felt the pinpricks on their skins and heard the whispers of the darkspawn.

 

* * *

 

 

The next day they reached the main hall of Kal’-Hirol. As they were sneaking around, they saw ghosts of dwarves once living here, locked in an eternal repetition of their last minutes. The Veil was thin, and that meant Amell and Anders could use their spells sparingly, if they didn’t want to risk catastrophe. It all went out of the window once they saw the first corrupted spider the size of a sheep crawling towards them, then got engulfed in flames, shocked by lightning and frozen, then hit by a rock fist. Amell was even jumping on the remains until it stopped moving completely. To his dismay, the thaig was infested with spiders of various size, but the smallest of them was just as big as Alistair’s mabari. “No. No no no no. Let’s NOT and say we did.” he backed away from the hissing and chattering animals that crawled in his direction. “We can’t just turn around and leave!” Sigrun scolded him. “We have to find the broodmothers and kill them.” Amell groaned and frowned and earned some more disapproving glances from his companions – Anders excluded, he had fun watching his fellow mage’s distress – but eventually the spiders caught up with them. They hacked and slashed their way through the nest – Amell shouting “Ew, ew, ew” all the way until they cleared it – and found a chest on the far end of the chamber. It contained a ring made of lyrium, among some other, long expired things and some papers. “Hmm…” Sigrun hummed “These are from a journal, which belonged to one dwarf named Dailan.” she rummaged through the chest, but found no other piece of the journal. “It says he remained here during the onslaught of darkspawn with the casteless. I wonder why.” Amell took the papers and read through them as well, but he gave them back to Sigrun. “Perhaps we’ll find more pieces lying around.” he said then joined the others exploring the former slums and commons.

 

Two hundred dwarves. They all died there, protecting a city that didn’t even treat them like people. Casteless and forgotten. Unmourned by anyone. Sigrun found it endearing, but Amell thought it cruel and wretched. Dailan’s journal mentioned a place where he had a stone slab with all the names of the dwarves who joined him in his last stand. Sigrun wanted to find it. So they searched through the whole level from top to bottom, only stopping for a short rest to regain some energy and mana. The ghosts of the dwarves still lingered, and both living dwarves and humans stopped to witness a piece of history. A ghost that likely had been the warrior Dailan in his breathing days gave a speech to the army of casteless on his echoing voice. It reminded Amell too much of his own situation, so he urged the party to move on. Not too far from the still gathering ghost army, they found an alcove with golems. “We could use them against the darkspawn.” Sigrun said, already searching the room for a control rod. Amell thought of Shale and shook his head. The golem hated him from the very first second until the last. Now that he knew how to make them, he felt the thought disturbing to use these things-that-once-were-dwarves to their own end. It reminded him way too much of necromancy and other dark forms of magic. “We’re wasting time.” Anders shrugged, seeing their commander’s face. “Besides, we searched the place thoroughly and there’s no sign of the control rod here. Maybe it’s somewhere else.” Sigrun frowned and pocketed some things they might use later, like a health poultice and two lyrium potions, and followed the rest of the company out of the chamber. They found a bunch of darkspawn on the next level of the thaig, which seemed to be the trade quarters. They looked nothing like the hurlocks and genlocks they met. These looked like grubs the size of smaller dogs and had faces of bloated and deformed babies. And they had reinforcements. Amell hurled a fireball into the thick of the mass which sent some of the creatures flying and ricocheting from the wall. Sadly, this didn’t seem to be enough for their thick layer of chitin to break and for the darkspawn to perish. Their shriek was ear-piercing, and alerted the rest of the hive to the intruders.

 

* * *

 

 

It got ugly very quickly. Amell burned himself out hurling fireballs and shooting lightnings, Anders cursed him loudly for he had to keep healing their close-combat specialist allies. Nathaniel manoeuvred behind them and managed to clear a path for them to the bridge leading to the next level. “Fall back!” Amell shouted. Anders and Nathaniel went first, clearing the still lingering genlocks from the path, while Sigrun and Oghren covered Amell’s retreat. “Don’t stop on the bridge!” he ordered. “We need a place we can hold and defend, or they will overrun us.” Sigrun remembered her fellow Legionnaires getting overwhelmed by the darkspawn vividly, and she didn’t wish that fate on her newfound allies. “Follow me, I know a way!” she exclaimed and ran to a corridor, the Wardens on her tail. They stopped frequently to hurl spells and shoot arrows into the mass of insectoid monstrosities pursuing them, but they could kill only a few. Eventually, they reached an optimal vantage point on Sigrun’s lead, and looked around. “There are too many of them.” Amell concluded, then sat down behind some boulders and crates they used as barricade. “I’m out of mana, but I gathered a few lyrium potions. How are you holding up?” Nathaniel shook his head and held his empty quiver high. “I’m out of arrows.” Oghren grumbled “We shoulda keep on hitting them nughumpers! Sodding man-skirt wearing cowards.” Sigrun looked up at Amell. “So… What are we going to do?” Anders laughed bitterly. “Why for starters, we should lean down, get our heads between our legs and kiss our arses goodbye. We won’t get out of here alive, that’s for sure.” He shot a fiery glance at Amell. “And it’s your fault.” “Hey, don’t panic!” Amell raised his hand in defence “I’ve been through worse and I’m still alive.” 

 

He sighed and rummaged through his pack. “We have to kill enough of them to make them stop coming after us.” he was thinking loudly. “No shit, really?” Anders sneered. “I’m not aversive to any ideas.” Amell commented, still elbow-deep in his backpack. “I mean, if any of you have something useful in mind.” Sigrun stuck her neck out to see a squirming ocean of darkspawn slowly making their way to their hideout. “We need something that can cover a great area.” She reported. Amell groaned. “I hoped I could go without overdosing on lyrium. I guess it was too much to ask.” Anders was sneaking behind Sigrun to see the situation for himself. “Two fireballs and maybe a few ice bolts could do the trick.” he mused. “That is, if we don’t really go counting on actually killing them, just want to buy us time to flee.” Amell scoffed. “I can kill them with fire.” Anders caught a glimpse of one of the childer opening its whole head to release a high-pitched shriek. “Please do!” he turned back to their commander, shuddering in horror. Amell downed one of the more potent lyrium potions, frowning from the aftertaste that felt like overripe fruit. He felt his power restored and the rush of adrenaline as he grabbed the hilt of his longsword that also doubled as his staff. “Be ready to run or to fight if they get past me!” he ordered his companions, and jumped on top of the barricade. “Now you’ll see true power!” he grinned, then conjured the biggest fireball he could muster, and hurled it into the mass of fast approaching darkspawn. The force of the explosion nearly threw him off of his feet, but he remained standing, conjuring lightning. “Now! Run for your lives!” he yelled and waited until his comrades get enough distance between themselves and the creatures. A Hurlock was lucky or strong enough to survive the first fireball and evade the lightning bolt, and swung its blade aiming at Amell’s leg. He set the creature in flames and after it collapsed to the ground, he ran after the others. 

 

* * *

 

 

They fought their way through the darkspawn, the suddenly activating and hostile golems, and were running low on supplies. They finally reached the low levels of Kal’-Hirol, and were standing in a one-way corridor. Or more precisely, leaning to the wall and sitting next to it. “We have to go forward.” Amell muttered, drowsy from the lyrium he downed again to sustain his protective spells and be able to cast in case they fight again. “You look like three-weeks-old-nugshit.” Oghren grumbled. “You and Skirts will collapse or fly away if you drink one more of that blue stuff.” Anders was barely holding himself from throwing up. His mouth still tasted like rotten fruit after drinking a potion. “The broodmothers are close by.” Sigrun turned her nose. “I can smell them.” “Hey, that means maybe I’m not nauseous because of the lyrium potion, but because of the darkspawn stink.” Anders joked. Amell thrust himself from the wall, and when he found he could stand on his own and not fall over, he shrugged. “I guess I’m good.” Anders stood up as well and slowly all of them gathered to their feet. The corridor led to a round chamber. Pipes on the walls with flowing water made noise but not enough to cover the party’s arrival. One of the sentient darkspawn was talking with another, which was in the hands of an enormous smouldering steel-golem. They couldn’t make out what it said, but something about a Mother and then the golem ripped the darkspawn in its hands in two. “What? Who comes now? I sense you, but you are no darkspawn!” the talking one addressed Amell and company as they entered the chamber. “No shit.” Amell said “I’m the one good little darkspawn are afraid of!” The golem turned towards them, and attacked the same time with the Disciple.

 

If Amell ever wondered how his enemies felt like when he rained fire on them, now was his chance to learn. The Lost was a formidable emissary, and the golem was immune to fire but ignited everything and everyone around it. It knocked Nathaniel out pretty fast and Anders had to cast Winter’s Grasp on him to save him from burning alive. Sigrun was also helpless against it, so she focused on the Lost instead. Oghren stood his ground against the golem, but it forced him onto a patch on the ground that ignited the moment the dwarf’s feet touched it. Amell cast another Winter’s Grasp on the golem while Anders healed Oghren. “This is not good.” he groaned. Anders exchanged looks with him. “I have an idea.” Amell said then cast Heroic Offense on Oghren, who was cursing and smoking. “You’re better with frost-based spells. I rely mostly on fire, and now it’s useless. I’ll be the supporter, and you have to freeze that golem or it will roast us to crisp.” Anders never liked to follow orders, but now he thought he will make an exception. After all, his life was at stake. “Understood. Destructive forces of nature, coming right up!” Amell ran to see if he can help Nathaniel. He winced when he saw the third degree burns and he dropped to his knees already casting the healing spell. He felt calm and a surge of warmth inside he extended into his hands and let his spirit do the work. Nathaniel’s reddened and blackened skin disappeared making way for the new, healthy tissue. Amell also cast a rejuvenation and a revival spell on him, then helped the archer to his feet. “Thanks.” Nathaniel muttered. “Kill that darkspawn, and avoid the golem!” Amell ordered.

 

It was easier said than done. Nathaniel saved their hide after discovering that the waterfalls had small niches behind them, so they could take cover every time the golem tucked itself in to charge up for another fire burst. “Lure it under the water!” Amell shouted over the roaring flames and running waterfalls. Nathaniel and Sigrun ran in circles around the golem, trying to get it under the waterfalls where it was significantly slowed down. The resulting steam began to fill the chamber, making it hard to see anything. Anders was bombarding the golem with Winter’s Grasp, Cone of Cold and even cast Blizzard, but that forced the party to take cover until worn off if they wouldn’t want to freeze and burn simultaneously. Amell enchanted the party’s weapons with frost – likely the only non-pyromantic spell he could actually cast properly – and kept his cleansing and healing aura up until he was drained of mana again and had to sit down. He saw the golem’s fall and heard the victorious howls of his comrades. Then he felt a cold armour pressing against him as Sigrun wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “We won!” She cheered. Anders collapsed to the ground next to Amell. “I hate you so much.” he sighed. Amell laughed.

 

* * *

 

 

They looted the corpse of the darkspawn emissary – Anders was curious about its staff – and pocketed a piece of the Inferno golem. Master wade wanted challenge, and Amell was a man who kept his promises. They went on their way to the last chamber with a pit housing three broodmothers. Anders peeked down from the edge of the pit and jumped backwards when a tentacle came up. Of course many others followed the first, and one successfully crushed Amell into the wall. Anders cursed and rushed over to heal him while the rest of the team kept the squirming and lashing tentacles from reaching them. Amell couldn’t speak but he batted Anders’ hand away, and pointed up to the ceiling. There was a giant piece of stone hanging on chains just above the pit. Anders looked back at Amell, who tried to fight himself to his knees but failed miserably then at the chains. He grunted indignantly and shouted over to Oghren “Cut the chains!” He hoped they heard. “Don’t. Move.” Anders instructed Amell, who – to the healer’s surprise – obeyed. Anders drew on his last drops of mana and his spirit to heal the broken bones, and Amell could finally stand up again. He went to the last chain holding the stone ornament in place, then severed it with his blade. The thing landed inside the breeding pit, crushing all three of the broodmothers underneath. “Ha! Take that, Manytits Nightmarefuel!” Anders cheered looking down at the mayhem. Sigrun sat down on a boulder, having her one minute of honouring the fallen Legionnaires and comprehending the success of her mission. After she stood up, she seemed lost. Amell went over to her. “What’s wrong? We killed the broodmothers.” Sigrun nodded. “That we did. And thank you for your help. Still…” she crossed her arms in front of her. “I think I’ll head back to the Deep Roads.” Amell raised his brow. “Why? And what would you do there alone?” Sigrun shrugged. “I’m already dead. I can go there and be forgotten.” Amell sat down next to her and watched her staring into the distance. “Or you know, you could come with us.” he suggested, drawing Sigrun’s attention. “Go with you? To the Wardens? I don’t know…” she tapped her finger on her chin. “Can somebody be a member of the Legion of the Dead and a Grey Warden at once?” she asked. “There’s no rule against it as far as I know.” Amell smiled.

 

The road back was long and tedious. But they were alive and it was enough. Well, enough until they reached the Vigil. That was when the questions came. “You never told me you were a spirit healer too” Anders nudged Amell after he gave master Wade the piece of golem he already fussed over. “I thought you only had training as an Arcane Warrior.” Amell smiled sheepishly. “I learned it outside the Circle. Wynne taught me after I refused to take her with me on dangerous adventures. It came in handy.” Anders grinned “I bet.” Amell didn’t feel like smiling. “I have to prepare for Sigrun’s Joining. We’ll talk later.” Anders didn’t keep him, and Amell wouldn’t want to stay. He wanted to get over with the ritual. He hoped that the brave little dwarf scout will survive, despite her claims that she was already dead.

 

It took her only a few hours to get up and back on her feet. She collapsed after her eyes went white, much like the others, but Sigrun was alive. And hungry. Amell was relieved like someone removed a mountain from his chest. Their next stop was the cantina, where the rest of the company was having a sort-of Joining party. Sigrun even got a cherry pie. Oghren brought the ale and soon the stress of the past days found release in food and heavy drinking. They were singing “Duster, I hardly knew ye”, and even Anders sang along with the hurroo-hurroo’s. Sigrun looked much better, and helped herself to the third serving of roasted chicken with mashed potatoes. The gruesome nature of the song didn’t seem to put her off. Another round later the company began a song that became popular during the last year.

 

The whole evening went like that. Amell excused himself and went to bed early, though he still heard the rest of the company’s drunk singing of various songs, some of them he didn’t even hear before. They still had plenty of things to do, but he let them have this little celebration of the victory in Kal-Hirol. Maker knew they needed it.

 


	10. Partners in Crime

_“I can feel that you mesmerize my heart,_

_I feel so free I’m alive I’m breaking out_

_I won’t give in, ‘cause I’m proud of all my scars,_

_And I can see I’ve been wasting too much time_

_I go faster and faster and faster and faster_

_And faster and faster and faster_

_And I can’t live in a fairytale of lies, and I can’t hide from the feeling ‘cause it’s right_

_And I go faster and faster and faster and faster for life_

_I can’t live in a fairytale of lies...” – “Faster” – Within Temptation_

 

 

“Why are we treading through the puddles in the alleys again?” Anders grumbled while his long legs strode over a very suspicious body of fluid on the muddy street. Amell wasn’t listening to him, he was talking with Sigrun and Nathaniel, so that left only Oghren as the one to answer. “This is the boss’ way to deal with nobles. He runs away from them.” Anders exhaled through his nose, almost sounding like snickering. “Not that I have any right to judge, but how is running away solves his problems with the nobles?” “How did running away solve your problem with the Templars?” Oghren asked instead of answering. “Ouch.” Anders replied and decided to end the discussion. They ended up at the marketplace, mingling in the morning crowd. Sigrun stopped at one of the stalls, looking at the commander with a smile that reached her eyes. “There’s a lot of good stuff here. Barely manage to behave myself.” Amell laughed. “You can buy anything you like, you know.” Sigrun ran her fingers over a snow globe depicting the former king and queen. “In the Legion, we weren’t allowed to have things. The dead don’t need them.” Amell stepped closer to the stall, and picked the snow globe up. “Well, now you’re a Warden.” He paid a few coppers for the merchant, and handed the trinket over to Sigrun. The dwarf eyed the globe for a short while then pocketed it, and proceeded to crush Amell’s hip in a hug. No more words were said, but the way Sigrun took out her snow globe every now and then, shaking it to watch the tiny flakes drift inside with a content smile told everything there was to tell.

 

They reached a staircase that led up to the local Chantry and the rest of the city. Anders caught up with Amell, leaving Oghren behind to eye some suspicious tonics on a stall. “Where are we going exactly if I may ask?” He nudged the commander. “I know there’s a tavern here somewhere…” Amell mused while examining a map of Amaranthine. Anders buried his face in his palm. “If you’re looking for the Crown and Lion, then by sheer luck we are near. It’s just above the stairs, across the street from the Chantry. You’re welcome.” Amell tucked the map in his backpack and flashed a grin at Anders. “I wonder how did you even find your way through Ferelden during the Blight.” Anders grumped. Amell shrugged while taking a few steps up the stairs. “Well, at first Alistair handled the map before giving it to me to avoid getting even more lost. Then we met Zevran, and it became much more easy, because it turned out he actually knows how to read a map.” Amell explained. “Oh, sweet Andraste on the pyre…” Anders sighed but was concealing a smile. They arrived at the Crown and Lion a few minutes later, and Amell went over to the bartender to ask some questions. Anders, Oghren, Sigrun and Nate sat down to an unoccupied table. “Eh… Do you think there’s an apothecary around here somewhere?” Oghren asked. “There is one just around the street.” Nathaniel answered. “Why?” Anders tried to signal him not to ask, but it was too late. “I have this… rash.” the dwarf explained “It’s starting to get a bit green too, and itches like the Void.” The faces of the three other Wardens became slightly green as well. “All right, I’m not hungry anymore.” Sigrun commented, looking up from her snow globe. “You’re a healer aren’t you, Sparklefingers?” Oghren turned to Anders. “Could you… err… Do something with it?” Anders scooted away from Oghren’s chair. “That is a Nope-ride to Fuckitville for certain.” “Screw you, Sparklefingers.” Oghren grunted. “Not with that rash of yours!” Anders riposted. “Eh, I guess I’ll just see if I can buy one of those nice minty balms in the apothecary then.” The dwarf concluded.

 

Amell sat down next to Oghren and made an inquiring expression. “Nothin’” Oghren said very communicatively. “Well then.” The commander clapped his hands together “We have a lead on one of the missing Orlesian wardens, one by the name of Kristoff. He was my predecessor as warden-commander here, before he got lost during an investigation. The last information of his whereabouts was leading to this very tavern.” Anders vaguely remembered something about looking for clues, and finding out what happened to all of the Orlesian Wardens sent to Ferelden as reinforcements. “Did you find anything?” He asked. Amell ran his fingers through his hair. “I know which one was his room, and I plan to stay here for the night. I see what I can find among Kristoff’s belongings, and you four are free to either help me or take a look around the city and ask if more people saw or heard something about Kristoff or the other Wardens. We’ll deal with the Merchant Guild’s problem tomorrow.” “Oh, so we’re here on behalf of the Merchant Guild as well.” Anders prodded. Amell sighed. “Right, yea. I’m not very good with keeping you guys up to date with information… We’re about to meet a fellow by the name Mervis, a member of the Merchant Guild on the behest of mistress Woolsey. You know she keeps me on a short leash, so I want to get this over with quickly to get her out of my hair and maybe get some coins to the treasury.” “And how our dear Kristoff is of any relevance to this?” Anders queried. “Actually I was looking for clues about the rest of the Wardens since the night I arrived at Vigil’s Keep and found it under attack by darkspawn.” Amell answered. “Seneschal Varel helped me out with this one, and provided me with the single lead we have. It’s up to me to find out if Kristoff is still alive… He’s been out for a month at least.” “You mean it’s up to _us._ ” Nathaniel inserted. “You can count on us, commander!” Sigrun added. “I know.” Amell smiled. “That’s why I brought you along.”

 

* * *

 

 

They were in the middle of planning their trip to the Merchant’s Guild when the tavern’s door suddenly flung open, and everyone turned to see the small, lithe elven woman carrying an unconscious man on her shoulders, begging for help. Anders and Amell exchanged glances and went over to the door before the bouncer could throw the elf out. “I’m a healer.” Anders said to the fellow, and he grumbled something but left them alone. “Please ser, help him!” the little elf cried. The rest of the wardens caught up with the two mages. “Let’s take him upstairs to one of our rooms.” Amell ordered, and grabbed the man’s arms, lifting him off from the elf. Nathaniel took his legs, and Anders took the elf’s hand. Her skin was red and dry, broken in many places. “What happened to you, can you tell me?” he asked, examining the elf girl’s eyes and pulling her with him. “We ‘ere sailors. Our ship sank. Capt’n’s dead…” she trailed off and begun to sob tearlessly. “How long did it happen?” Anders kept on asking. “It might be important.” The elf pulled herself together, and shook her head. “I don’t know, ser. Days ago. We’ve been out on the sea… Only reached shore an hour ago. Flavius is… He’s not waking up.” She cried again. While Anders was interviewing the elf, Amell and Nathaniel put the unconscious man onto the bed. “All right everyone, we’ll need your help!” Amell turned to the two dwarves. “Oghren, get me water! Regular, cold water.” Oghren span on his heel and went down, cursing whoever discovered stairs. Amell turned to Sigrun. “Could you bring here Anders’ backpack? All of our salves and poultices are there.” “Immediately!” she smiled and went to the adjacent room. Anders patted the elf’s hand and went over to the commander. “They were shipwrecked, out in the seawater for days.” “Can you heal him?” Amell asked. “I’ll try, even if there’s not much hope.” Anders answered and cast a look that meant to be reassuring to the elf, who went as close as it was possible to the bed, holding herself by leaning to the bedpost. Anders cast a healing spell on the man, and another, and when Sigrun arrived with his backpack, he applied a healing poultice to the patient. Oghren gave a waterskin to Amell, who gave it to the elf. “Take small sips.” he said. The elf drank the water and kept on thanking them. Amell had time to take a better look at the newcomers. The elf girl was very young, maybe in her late teens, and slender to the point of being brittle. Her hair was matted and stuck together by sea salt and water, her torn tunic and sailor’s trousers were still damp. She had sunburn and her dried skin was marred with small scars made by the salt ripping it open. Amell stepped over to her and cast one of his own healing spells, waiting until the magic does its job. Her travelling companion was now in a much better shape, thanks to Anders' magic. The man had a pale, gaunt face and a goatee, dark hair matted by water and salt, and the torn robes of a Tevinter mage. Anders raised his brow, looking at Amell.

 

“What can you tell us about your companion?” Amell asked the girl, gently making her sit down on the edge of the bed. She fidgeted a bit, trying to look at the mage behind her and the one sitting next to her, and shrugged. “Not much. Flavius was the healer on our ship. Says the Capt’n recruited him after raiding the ship he travelled on. Same with me.” Anders stood up and skirted the bed to crouch in front of the elf. “Raided? Your captain was a pirate?” The elf nodded. “Aye. One of them horned big fellas. Scared the life out of me when I first saw ‘im.” Amell chuckled. “A Qunari pirate. That’s something.” “I have a hard time believing it, to be honest.” Anders furrowed his brow. “And how did you end up with this person?” he gestured to the unconscious man behind them. “When our ship has been attacked, I was with Flavius.” she blushed and lowered her head. “I learned to read. He taught me.” “But do you know anything about him? Who he is, where is he from? Maybe someone’s looking for him.” Anders pressed on. “He only said he’s from Tevinter. And that he was running away from his family. He was on the _Iron Horn_ longer than I.” she explained. Sigrun sat down on the ground next to Anders, facing the elf. “What’s your name, sweetie? I’m Sigrun, the taciturn fellow guarding the door is Nathaniel, our miracle healer here is Anders, and the one sitting next to you is our leader, warden-commander Amell.” “Hey, and what am I? Chopped nug-livers?” Oghren grumbled. “You still smell like it.” Anders answered. The elf finally permitted herself a smile. “I’m called Elora.” “Pleased to meet you.” Sigrun smiled back. Elora just seemed to notice the company’s uniforms. “Are you soldiers? Not Templars, I hope.” Anders laughed bitterly. “If we’d be Templars, we wouldn’t talk to you.” “We are grey wardens.” Amell explained. Elora’s already big green eyes became wider. “The ones who betrayed the king?” she scooted away from Amell. “No, the ones who killed the Archdemon and ended the Blight. Teyrn Loghain betrayed the king, and began to spread this lie to cover himself.” Amell explained. “And we have work to do.” he concluded, standing up from the bed.

 

* * *

 

They were on their way to the Merchant Guild when Anders nudged Amell. “Do you believe it?” he asked. Amell cast a confused glance at him, so he specified. “The half-dead Tevinter and his elven girl’s story.” The commander shrugged. “Let’s say I’m inclined to believe her, but I will need to fact-check some things before we go back to the Crown and Lion today.” Anders nodded. “Good. I see a bit of my healthy paranoia rubbed off on you finally.” Amell grinned at him. “I’m not that naïve as you think I am.” They stood in line for the Guildmaster to see them, and then Amell was talking with that Mervis fellow for at least an hour before agreeing to take the trip to the Wending Wood and see to the end of the attacks that prevent caravans from reaching Amaranthine from Denerim and vice-versa. Amell assured the annoying little man that he won’t come back until they know what is going on, and have some kind of solution. “Couldn’t you promise him that you’ll teach local pigs to fly as well?” Anders prodded as they left the Guild’s building. “Come on, we were already preparing to leave for the woods, one more favour on top of the others won’t make a difference.” Amell protested. “Oh sure. One more favour we’ll be doing because someone was batting their eyelids so nicely at you. It was so pretty it almost distracted me as well from noticing you didn’t ask for payment.” “I asked for payment. In goods and trading posts in Vigil’s Keep.” Anders scoffed. “Yes, your payment will be that they can benefit even more from your job – _our_ job. We’re left with nothing. Again!” “Just what the void is your problem?” Amell snapped. “Mistress Woolsey is my problem!” Anders answered. “And her constant nagging for you to take care of the Keep’s finances, basically doing her job for her. These people are using you, and you let them. That is my problem, my dear friend.” Oghren, Nathaniel and Sigrun were treading the streets behind the two mages, and the dwarf poked the archer’s leg. “Hey, did we miss somethin’?” Nathaniel looked at Oghren and said “I’m not sure what you mean…” “I mean when did those two have a wedding?” the dwarf pointed at the two mages. “According to the bickering, they’ve been married for at least an Age.” He stated. Sigrun chuckled. Anders and Amell exchanged glances, then stopped their argument hearing their companions.

 

After a half-hour of wandering about in Amaranthine, the wardens ended up in the docks district. Amell began to ask around about the alleged shipwrecks, and they found the remains of a qunari washed ashore approximately the same time as Elora and her companion. Amell and Anders examined the body, and it seemed the elf’s tale was true. “Are you sure this one was their captain?” Anders asked. “Well, she said he was a qunari with one horn broken, and according to the wounds of our dead friend here, he died of heavy blood loss and shock from a torn off leg. Could be an injury from an attack on the ship he was on.” Sigrun stepped next to them. “Elora said her ship was attacked. Let’s find out if the port authorities know anything about it.” Amell nodded. “Though I have to admit I have no idea what one’s to do with a dead qunari. Should we just leave him here? To rot?” he mused. “Beats me.” Anders confessed “You’re the one who had a qunari friend, not me.” Amell sighed and stood up, conjuring a ball of flame. He cast it onto the corpse and as it burned, he recited a prayer he learned from his old travelling companion. “Shok ebasit hissra. Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra. Anaan esaam Qun.” They stood in silence until the flames consumed the remains of the qunari, then went on their way. The port authorities knew nothing of the _Iron Horn_ , only that it sailed under Rivaini colours and only docked in Amaranthine once, months before the last Blight. “That was helpful.” Anders grumped. “I wonder if they noticed the jolly roger at all.” “Well, we have what we came here for.” Amell shrugged. “I wanted to know whether Elora was lying to us or not, and it’s clear now that she was telling the truth. We might as well return to the tavern and to our more important tasks.” They agreed on that, and turned to leave the docks. They were halfway to the Crown and Lion when an elven woman approached them from one of the alleys and went straight to Anders’ direction. “Hey, about time you showed up!” The party stopped on their tracks as Anders left them to meet her halfway through. “Namaya? You’re still here?” The woman frowned at him. “ _I_ keep my promises. Here. Turns out you were right. The cache is here in Amaranthine.” Anders’ giddy smile lighted his face up. “It is? You… You found it?” Amell eyed the elf suspiciously. Something about her expressions set him off. Sigrun kicked a ball of dust away and looked up at the blond mage, who listened to his mysterious friend going on with her tale. “I did. What you do with that information is up to you.” She waved her hand dismissively “I’m done dealing with mages.” “Er…I guess I should thank you.” Anders said sheepishly. “Damn right you should!” The elf smiled at him, but her smile vanished in an instant. “If you get caught Anders, I’m not helping you again. That’s all I’m saying.” She left them, her small form getting swallowed by the shadows of the alley she came out of.

 

Anders watched her leave dejectedly, only turning around to face Amell when he nudged him. “I… suppose it requires some explanation.” He tried to fake a smile, but his voice was shaky, even if he forced some laughter into it. “What’s wrong?” Amell asked, having a bad feeling. “Was that elf a friend of yours?” “She’s normally more welcoming than that… A lot more.” Anders explained, his forced cheer replaced by worry. “Namaya is… a friend.” he shifted from one leg to the other. “The last time I escaped from the tower, I asked her to look into some things.” Amell crossed his arms in front of his chest. “That’s why I was in Amaranthine.” Anders carried on “The Templars thought I was going to get on a ship, but I was here to meet her.” Amell’s tense posture never eased. He furrowed his brow “And what did she find out?” “During the Blight the Templars moved their store of phylacteries to Amaranthine, for safety.” Anders expounded. “My phylactery is among them, Namaya learned.” Amell ran his hand through his hair. He suspected where this discussion is going to end up. “So long as the Templars have that sample of my blood, they can find me. I need to destroy it!” Anders went on. A distant memory of Jowan and his exact same request surfaced in Amell’s mind, and along with it, a sudden surge of suspicion. “And you want me to help you, am I right?” Anders was startled by his cold reaction. “Well… I mean… I could go alone, but…” “You’re a Grey Warden now.” Amell stated firmly. “The Templars can’t touch you.” Anders also crossed his arms, mirroring Amell’s body language. “Oh yes, true that. And what if the Chantry decides one day that mages among the ranks of the Grey Wardens are apostates too? I want to be sure that they can’t ever find me again. Ever.” His determination seemed to sway over Amell’s resistance. “I’ll think about it.” he said. Anders wasn’t happy. “That’s it? So much for being a childhood friend I guess…” Amell sighed indignantly. “I didn’t say no, Anders. I said let me think about it! And now let’s get back to the Crown and Lion and see if the shipwrecked pirates overtaken the place while we were away or not…”

 

 


	11. Freedom is Just Another Word...

_“I've been witness to so many wars_

_That I'm blind to affliction_

_No ability left to remorse_

_It's my faith and conviction_

_Wide awake in this world full of hate I unfurl_

_But I am damned if life itself is condemnation_

_I am immortal thus my freedom is captivity…” – “Across the Highlands” – Kamelot_

 

The place was in one piece, so Amell’s ever-growing tension eased somewhat. Elora was grateful, and her companion awoke not long before the wardens returned. Amell had a long talk with Flavius about his experiences on sea, and his specializations as both Spirit Healer and Necromancer. It fascinated and disgusted him at the same time. Anders was only half paying attention; his nerves were dancing a wicked jig. He paced to and fro in the small room, and sometimes looked out the window. It was well into the night when he decided he had enough. He went out the room, and managed to get down the stairs when he heard Amell’s voice calling his name. He looked back and was about to let his welled-up anger out on him, but the commander only asked him to wait a few minutes outside. Anders raised his brow in confusion, but decided to indulge Amell and waited for him, leaning to the wall of the Crown and Lion. “Where’s this warehouse of yours?” Amell asked, grabbing Anders by his arm and pulling him along, not losing momentum. “Uh… Let me think… It supposed to be near the market.” Came the answer. “Right.” Amell nodded. “Double time, Anders! We have phylacteries to break!”

 

They ran through the silently sleeping city, earned some curious glances from guardsmen on patrol and scared the occasional alley cat. After slowing their pace to a comfortable jog, they ended up in front of an abandoned looking warehouse, hidden among the other buildings around the marketplace. “I think that’s where the phylacteries are.” Anders said. “It’s probably guarded.” “Let’s see!” Amell answered, and both of them sneaked through the street to the door of the warehouse. Amell tried the doorknob and to both mages’ surprise, it was open. “I’m sensing trouble.” Amell said on a sing-song tone then he kicked the door in, sword in hand. Anders was preparing an Ice Bolt spell, but the warehouse was empty. Dark, silent, deserted. “What the…?” Amell asked. “No guards…” Anders mused, killing the spell halfway through before the ice manifested on his hand. “Maybe they didn’t want to draw attention to the cache. Could we be that lucky?” Amell cast a deadpan look at him. “We’re not here right now because we were lucky.” They began to search the place, found some confiscated robes, bracers, a staff that was reeking of old blood, either because of its purpose or because of the templars’ not too gentle way of disposing its former owner but no phylacteries, Anders’ or other. There was only one place they didn’t search, and it was a smaller room in the back of the warehouse, probably used as an office. Amell went forward, Anders on his heel, but the small room was empty as well. They turned to leave when they heard the noise of a full-plate armour’s clanking. “And here I almost believed the infamous Anders wouldn’t take the bait.” A familiar female voice said. Both mages turned around with a deadpan look on their faces. “Ah, yes. I should have known it would be you.” Anders sneered. “You made a poor choice with this one, commander.” The Templar lieutenant turned to Amell “Anders will never submit. Not to us, and not to you.”

 

“He has made a fine warden so far.” Amell jested, trying to buy time to come up with a plan. “So far, yes.” Rylock argued “I’ll make sure that this murderer is never a bother to anyone again!” Anders took a step backwards. “What? No, you can’t arrest me, king Alistair allowed my conscription!” The sheer terror in his friend’s voice made Amell’s blood run cold. He never knew what happened to Anders after each time he escaped, but it didn’t take dwarven engineering to put the puzzle together. “The Chantry’s authority supersedes the crown in this matter.” Rylock stated smugly. “You can’t hide among the Grey Warden’s ranks.” Amell let the cold he felt in his bones seep into his voice. “No. I will not let you take him.” Rylock’s sneer was cutting like a blade. “Hardly surprising from yet another mage.” She turned to her quarry again. “I don’t know how you inspire such loyalty Anders, but it will avail you naught. You’re coming with us.” Anders faced her with defiance. “I’d rather die.” Rylock drew her sword. “We can arrange that.” “And how will you explain to your superiors that you murdered the commander of the Grey Wardens?” Amell asked while positioning himself between Anders and Rylock. “Oh, we did not.” the Templar answered “Your maleficar friend turned on you, and slew you. We were too late to prevent it.” Anders laughed hysterically. “Isn’t that cute? She has the whole story already planned.” His mind was racing, trying to cook up some last resort escape plan, but he was lousy at strategy and became frantic in stressful situations. He was also positive that Amell was crazy, as he saw the longsword leaving its sheath on the other mage’s back, and gets pointed at the Templars. _“Are you mad, they’ll silence us, smite us and hack us into little pieces, it was a bad idea, why did I even come here, why am I such an idiot, why didn’t I double-check the facts and suspect a trap, why, why, why…”_ Anders’ panicked thoughts kept him occupied, and he conjured a barrier over himself in vain when the cleansing wave and the smite came. He was proud of himself for not throwing up, just collapsing to the ground. Amell was still standing – Maker knows how – and tried to deflect Rylock’s heavy blows with his longsword. Anders fought himself to his feet, but was immediately knocked back by one of the Templars. They were three against two, and neither Amell nor Anders could use their magic. It was only a matter of time until the three heavily armed and armoured Templar overcomes the Warden in light armour and with a single sword. Well, it was nice knowing you, Graeme Amell.

 

A moment later an arrow landed in the forehead of one of the Templars, and he collapsed to the floor, and the other one, flanking Amell with Rylock cried out in pain and also fell, trying to stop the bleeding from his severed ligaments under his knees before a small shadow cut his throat. Amell made a low, menacing chuckle. “Nice timing, guys.” Anders couldn’t believe his eyes, as Nathaniel Howe and Sigrun appeared from the dark corners of the warehouse, and finally Oghren clomped in from the outside as well. “Ser Rylock, I’m giving you one last chance to make up your mind.” Amell deadpanned, eyes on the furious Templar. “Leave this place, and stop coming after Anders. He’s one of us now, like it or not.” Rylock held his gaze before clutching her sword and saying “Blessed are those who stand before the wicked and do not falter.” then she swung her blade at Amell. It caught him off-guard, nearly cutting his throat. He stumbled backwards, holding his wounded chin and face, dripping blood. Anders dragged him farther away from the Templar, and the raging dwarf that jumped at her. Sigrun, Oghren and Nathaniel quickly finished the fight. “Are you all right, commander?” Sigrun asked, squeezing Amell’s shoulder. He nodded, though his wound was still bleeding badly. “I’ll heal him.” Anders reassured her “Right after I got my mana back.”

 

As soon as the Templars were down, the effects of their powers died along with them, so it didn’t take long until the whole company left the building. It was almost dawn, the streets still empty, but the early birds were already chirping. Anders felt relief and the adrenaline rush, and couldn’t help but dash out to the street. He barely heard Amell saying “Meet us at the Crown and Lion” before leaving the company way behind. He wanted to feel the air against his face, the wind dancing in his hair, and Maker damn it, he wanted to dance too. Amell caught up with him, wide grin on his face. On his stupid, bony face. Anders wrapped his arms around him and kissed him as soon as they got close enough. Amell felt tense but only for a moment before returning the kiss, deepening it. It was full of longing and had an intensity that scared him. Anders felt the wall of a nearby house colliding with his back, as Amell continued to siege his lips. His hands went up the commander’s arms and over to his chest, lingering on the hard fabric of his leather armour, feeling the pricking of the metal studs adorning it as Amell’s weight pushed on him. Anders felt his mind drifting out of the haze of the adrenaline rush and the kiss, and a sudden realisation had him push Amell away as hard as he could. “What the Void you’re doing?” He asked, voice shaky with a fake laughter and traces of lust. Amell stared at him confusedly and backed away. “I… I’m sorry.” “Yea, I bet.” Anders sneered, feeling the need to be as far away from Amell as it was physically possible. “Just what were you thinking, jumping on me like that?” Amell’s face went red. “It was a mistake, I swear…” he stuttered, but Anders was too scared to notice. And when he was scared, he attacked. “You have me pinned against a wall and your tongue down my throat because of a mistake?” Anders laughed bitterly “The only mistake here is you thinking that helping me get rid of those templars will make me willing to let you bang me in a dirty alley.” Amell was still staring at him with a tortured look on his face. “I wasn’t…” he began but trailed off. “You wasn’t what?” Anders asked angrily. “Taking advantage? Thinking that you can get everything and everyone you want, because you’re a so-called hero? Is that it?” He pushed himself away from the wall, and put more distance between himself and Amell. “Just… Just leave me alone, will you?” he asked, then ran off.

 

* * *

 

He spent the day out on the docks, in the marketplace, even went up to the battlements, but he avoided the Crown and Lion like the Blight sickness. Just looking at the tavern from a bird’s eye view was enough to bring back the memory of his own words and what just happened that morning. “Way to be a dick, Anders.” he scolded himself. “Poor man probably cries a river and will never even come near you again.” A pigeon landed next to him, making Anders squint at it before shooing the bird away. He had time to think things through, and without the post-battle energy rush and slight horniness – not to mention the absence of an unconventionally handsome commander’s lanky body against his – he had a clear mind. And he wanted to slap himself. He knew he had to confront Amell sooner or later, and unless he was ready to leave his Grey Warden career behind so soon, he must go back to his companions. He groaned earning stares from various guards and some pigeons and ran down the stairs leading to the streets below. The tavern was welcoming, if a bit overcrowded and Anders needed to slither around in the crowd to find the table his comrades were occupying. Nate, Oghren and Sigrun were playing Wicked Grace. Amell was not with them. “Hey there, big boy.” Sigrun smiled at Anders “Where have you been?” “Oh, here and there. Have you seen the commander?” Sigrun pointed towards the ceiling “He’s been up in his room all day. Probably going through the notes of that Kristoff fellow.” “So, you’d look for him there if you were me?” Anders asked, earning a grin from the dwarf before she turned her attention back to the game. Anders left them and ran up the stairs to the rooms on the first floor. He found Amell’s relatively easily, it was the only one closed but not locked. He knocked then opened the door without waiting for an invitation. “What is it?” Amell asked, not even looking up from the papers in front of him. “Guess who’s back?” Anders asked instead of answering. “Why are you holed up in here? It’s sunny outside.” Amell sighed indignantly, rustling with the notes. He was still with his back towards the door. “I’ve been around town today. Sat on top of the Chantry, it was awesome.” Anders chattered on. “Splendid.” Amell deadpanned. “Did you cast a Blizzard spell here, or is it just me?” Anders asked and Amell finally put his damn papers down. “If you don’t have anything to report, please leave.” Anders felt a pang in his heart. This wasn’t the Amell he knew. This was the Warden-Commander, all business and colder than Winter’s Grasp. Anders closed the door behind him, and locked it. There was no turning back now. “Listen, about what happened earlier today…”

 

“What about it?” Amell felt he can’t hold his cold exterior for much longer. But he wasn’t going to give Anders the satisfaction of crying in front of him. He had enough of that. He no longer was the snivelling little apprentice blinded by his enormous crush on the Circle Tower’s resident badboy. “If you’re worried about it happening again, I can assure you that I will refrain from taking advantage of you in the future.” Anders exhaled loudly, irritated and he sat down next to Amell on the loveseat in front of a low table, containing the notes the commander was rummaging through. “I was the one kissing you.” There. It was out. Amell still refused eye contact or deigned to at least raise his head from admiring the spot on the table. Anders waved his hand in front of his face, making the other man stand up and put more distance between them by walking to the fireplace. “You had your fun yet?” Amell asked, leaning to the wall. “Or you have some more daggers you’re willing to stab me with?”

 

Anders shrugged. “I wasn’t stabbing you. Besides, I came to apologise, and you’re making it damn hard.” Amell’s eyes were two globes of ice, and his gaze stung like frostbite. “Sorry for not being the perfect little punching bag you used to know.” “Oh, ouch.” Anders winced “Can I get another shot at it?” Amell ran his fingers through his hair, like he always did when he was nervous. Anders stood up and shortened the distance between them in two strides. “I know I hurt you. And I’m really sorry. You want to know why I went into full-douche and left?” Amell was still staring into his eyes with his frosty gaze. Anders felt his throat run dry. “Because I realised that I want you. And more than that, you mean something to me.” He shook his head and tore his eyes away from Amell’s. “I could have run, now that the templars lost my trail. I contemplated it, to be honest.” He reached out and carefully held Amell’s face in both hands. “Yet here I am.” Amell frowned and the ice began to break. Anders wrapped his arms around him and Amell didn’t protest. “I stay because I love you that much, you little shit.” Amell made a sound into Anders’s embrace that was partly sobbing partly laughing. “So…” Anders asked after a short pause “We’re good? Friends again?” Amell nodded. “But I’m still angry at you.” he said on a hoarse voice. “Well, I guess it’s your turn to kick me in the nuts.” Anders shrugged. “But please only do it figuratively.” Amell chuckled and snuggled himself deeper into Anders’ arms. “Do you mean it?” He asked. “That you love me?” Anders sighed and rubbed Amell’s back. “I always did. Love you I mean.” His voice lost its usual playfulness when he said “I’m however not in love with you. Not yet.” Amell lowered his head, his hair brushing Anders’s jaw and neck. “I didn’t say we can’t give it a try though.” the blond carried on “Maker knows; I’m willing if you are. I just never considered it until now.” He pulled Amell back to the loveseat, letting him snuggle up to his side. Just like they did back in the Circle an Age ago. “You were like a little brother I never wanted.” Anders mused. “And it would break me for sure if they took you or harm you because of me. That’s why I never acknowledged your feelings back then. I knew, I just… kind of freaked out.” Amell took his hand, and let their entwined fingers rest on Anders’ thigh. “Am I freaking you out?” Anders shrugged. “Not anymore. I had my freakout-moment this morning, thank you.” They sat there in silence for a while before Amell straightened. “I should get back to work. We’ll head out to the Wending Wood tomorrow, and I still have these notes to go through.” Anders gave his hand a squeeze then stood up. “I’ll let you get back to your boring papers.” he went to open the door, but looked back at Amell. “I’m glad we have our thing sorted out.” The warm smile he got in return could melt an iceberg.


	12. ... For Nothing Left to Lose

_“I have never craved the system’s sympathy_

_I get restless over pity smiles_

_Some precaution wouldn’t harm my history_

_If I had the will to wait a little while_

_You cut the silence like a knife_

_You know I can’t repent for all…” – “Moonlight” - Kamelot_

Before they could depart the next day, Amell wanted to see if there are any job offers worth looking into at the chanter’s board. Anders didn’t want to go, for the board was at the Chantry's courtyard, but accompanied the commander instead of just waiting around in the tavern. So they climbed the stairs to the Chantry in silence, Anders hoping that it won’t take too long until they find out that nothing noteworthy is on the chanter’s board and leave. It didn’t work that way. As soon as they got up to the courtyard, Amell spotted a familiar face. It was Wynne and apparently she was packing her belongings, waiting around for someone. Her hair was longer and in a neat bun instead of the short ponytail Amell got acquainted with, and her robe was a different colour. “Well I’ll be damned...” Amell smiled “It’s good to see you!” Wynne turned around in confusion, but it only lasted for a moment before she recognized the young man in front of her. “It’s good to see you as well!” she hugged Amell briefly “I contemplated visiting you at Vigil’s Keep, but things got… Busy.” “Aren’t things always busy in our case?” Amell asked with his smile still on his face. “What brings you here?” “The college of the Magi is convening in Cumberland.” Wynne explained “And I must attend. Hopefully, all it will blow over before it’s begun.” Amell furrowed his brow and Anders stepped closer to him, standing right beside the commander. “But you have enough on your mind already, I shan’t trouble you with this further.” Wynne tried to dodge her way out of the conversation, but she should have known better. “If it concerns mages, then it is my concern as well.” Amell stated firmly. Wynne frowned “Very well. Then perhaps you should know that something stirs within the fraternities.” Amell and Anders exchanged glances while Wynne went on “The Libertarians want to pull away entirely from the Chantry. And if they get enough support…” “Pull away entirely?” Anders asked in disbelief “That’s madness! I hate Chantry oversight as much as the next mage, but they can’t just decide to leave! This is a recipe for disaster!” Wynne looked at him, grateful for his support. “Well, it might turn out to be nothing. You better keep your ear on the ground anyway.”

 

“Well, it is about time someone wants to do something about getting out from under the Chantry’s thumb.” Amell commented. “Have you forgotten what happened at Kinloch Hold?” Wynne lectured him. “That is only one of the many reasons why we need the Chantry and the Templars.” Amell’s bitter laughter didn’t stop her “Or do you want to give them a reason to call on the right to cull all of the mages under their care?” “But this is it, don’t you see?” Amell riposted with another question. “If there weren’t any Templars to begin with, if they didn’t have power over our life and death, things like the incident with Uldred might never even happen!” Wynne rubbed her eyes and was seriously questioning her decision to tell Amell about the conclave in Cumberland. “We had this conversation back then if I’m not mistaken.” she commented. “I hoped time had given you more sense than you had.” Amell crossed his arms in front of his chest. “We should not be held responsible for an alleged sin that our ancestors committed Ages ago. We should not be imprisoned for life for something we were born with!” his voice was firm but had an edge that was tested in the fire of helpless rage. Much like the one Anders himself felt many times before. “Yet it’s still too dangerous.” he tried to calm Amell down. “And what if they succeed? It would end up in a war.” “Change cannot be forced.” Wynne added. Amell shook his head in defeat. “Then it will never come. Mages will never be free.” Anders felt a pang in his heart and seeing the expression on Amell’s face he knew he was being a giant hypocrite. He wanted change. He was only content with that change only affecting himself and no one else. Amell and Wynne exchanged some pleasantries that rang hollow and forced after their heated argument just moments before. Anders wished he could add something meaningful to their conversation or at least could take the cutting edge of their voices away, but he was too deep in thoughts to actually paying attention. Wynne said her goodbyes then, having preparations to make so she can depart for Nevarra, and Amell’s heavy sigh indicated that he was upset. Anders knew the reason and he said so after leaving the courtyard. “Pulling away from the Chantry will result in a war we can’t win. Surely even you see this.” Amell laughed. “That coming from you my friend is the epitome of a paradox.”

 

“What do you mean?” Anders squinted. “You are all about freedom, how come you don’t get what I mean?” Amell laughed nervously. “I’m all about freedom for me, and that’s it. What can I say? I learned the hard way to look out for myself.” Anders answered walking next to Amell, who quickened his pace so they can put some distance between their little company and Wynne and the Chantry courtyard. “That’s selfish.” he grumped after a pause. “I know.” Anders shrugged. “Wouldn’t it be better if none of us would have to live under the Chantry’s thumb? If we could govern ourselves, or at least have been given some basic human rights? Like not having to tolerate being treated like shit by a religious group that has absolute power over us?” Amell began to shower Anders with questions. “Yes, I get it. It would be splendid, but it’s bloody impossible.” Anders answered. “If we’d try to go full-Tevinter here, it would only end in a massacre. Andraste’s knickerweasels, it could end in a mass-murder if only one of us looks at a Templar the wrong way.” “That’s it!” Amell exclaimed. “That is the problem right here.” Anders groaned indignantly. “I feel you, but breaking away from the Chantry won’t solve any problems. It would only create a thousand more.” “You’re just afraid.” Amell aimed and shot. “Excuse me?” By the tension in Anders’ voice, the shot hit. “Tell me when did you become a Chantry-apologist? When did they succeed in beating you into submission? Where is the escape artist with the undying flame of refusal to give in to them? When did they break you?” Amell was unaware that he raised his voice with every question. “They never broke me!” Anders shot back. “And you’re damn right I’m afraid, because I have every Maker-damned reason to do so!”

 

He remembered one time when he was betrayed by the very people he trusted and was given over to the Templars. The agony of their holy smite and the lost connection to the Fade, like being made tranquil for a few minutes. Only he wasn’t devoid of emotions. He could feel fear. Rage. Despair. He felt the iron-gauntleted fist in his face. “If there’s one man with an undying hatred for the Chantry and the corrupted, obsolete ideal it represents, it would be me. But I’m only one man. I can’t change the world, for fuck’s sake!” Anders screamed. Amell’s response was as cold as a blizzard. “You are speaking to the living example of what only one man can accomplish.” Anders locked gaze with Amell and shook his head after a pause. “I’m not as strong as you.” He stated. “True.” Amell said and turned away. Anders felt like he was punched in the face, but only until Amell continued. “You’re much stronger than me. But it looks like you forgot that.” They were in a staring contest for a few moments before both men felt a tug on their sleeves, making them break their locked gaze and turn them down to Sigrun. The dwarf held both mages’ hands in her own and looked up at their faces with a serious expression. “Hey! You’re on the same side! We are all Grey Wardens now, remember? I have no idea what those people did to you, but don’t let them tear you apart! Don’t let them make you forget that you love each other! Whatever that convention might decide, it will no longer concern any of you. They can’t reach you. Don’t ever forget that!” Anders and Amell looked back at each other. Anders holding back the tears welling up in his eyes, Amell sighing and letting go of his anger, or at least trying to. Sigrun concluded her reality-check with another sentence: “You know, down in Orzammar’s Dust Town, “freedom” is just another word for nothing left to lose. Think about that!” she let go of the hands of the humans and went forward, Oghren and Nathaniel at her heel.  

 

* * *

 

They ventured out to that damned forest after their fiery exchange. The tense and awkward silence that ruled their little company throughout the journey was lifted when they found the maimed and scattered remains of the last caravan trying its luck with going through the woodlands, and came to the conclusion that they should set patrols on the road, detouring the merchants to a longer, but safer way. Amell still wanted to know the source of the problem, so they dared the bandit and tree-demon infested woods to uncover the reason of the attacks. For a ridiculously long time, they found nothing – if one wouldn’t count the occasional darkspawn or angry tree – and it grated on their nerves. When they finally found the Dalish keeper responsible – or more precisely, she was the one finding them – they heard the most unlikely story of their lives. The elf claimed that merchants kidnapped her sister and murdered her clan, so she took the responsibility of retribution on herself, warning the band of wardens to send her message to the caravans passing through. Amell – ever the optimist – believed it was some kind of a mistake. The elf wanted to hear nothing about what he was trying to communicate, claiming that because they are – with the exception of the occasional dwarf - all humans, they probably were accomplices to whatever alleged hate-crime she and her sister were victims of. Anders wasn’t much of a help, he had his gaze fixed on the scenery of the keeper’s body the whole time.

 

So it took another few days camping out in the wonderful, darkspawn infested bosom of the Wending Wood to find the pit with bodies lazily thrown on spikes and into the bottom, and the lone ghoul who was the only survivor – though seeing the poor sod would make one use that word loosely – and hear the true tale of what happened. It was the darkspawn’s plot to turn the humans and the Dalish clan on each other. They raided the caravan and stole the weapons from the guards and proceeded to slaughter the elves with them, then left a whole cart of bows, swords and various killing instruments scattered around the camp. The keeper was away, so when she returned, she found the carnage and the “evidence” she evidently was dumb – or irrational – enough to believe. “She murdered those people all because of a mistake!” Anders exclaimed “We have to stop her before she kills someone again!” They agreed on that at least, so after getting rid of another batch of darkspawn and finding some trinkets on them that looked elven, the wardens headed back to the Dalish camp.

 

* * *

 

 

Convincing the keeper of her mistake was a harder task than any of them imagined even with the knowledge of the depths of her anger that completely eroded her common sense. Everything Amell presented was a lie or a made-up excuse for humans to get away with everything they had done to the elves in the past Ages. No argument could be made without being accused of lying and scheming to harm her or trying to get her to lower her guard so they can drop her into a cart and off to somewhere. It was equally frustrating and futile. Amell even offered help with finding the woman’s sister, but she bluntly refused to have anything to do with _shemlen_ who wronged her people in the first place. She had a hard time believing the alleged lie about sentient darkspawn. Everyone knew they are mindless; they could never develop such a plot. Amell pressed on, presented the elven trinket he found on one of the darkspawn they killed, and that – finally – appeared to break the ice. “That is Seranni’s!” the elf stated. “Where did you…” she never finished her sentence. “It was on a darkspawn I killed.” Amell confessed the truth. The elf nodded. It seemed the fog of rage and hatred finally lifted from her mind. “Then it means she’s lost as well.” she concluded.

 

Anders stepped forward to join the conversation “I’d hate to be the one raising false hopes, but your sister might still be alive.” he explained. “Darkspawn rarely kill women. They take them away instead to make them… one of them.” The recurring image of the broodmothers in Kal’-Hirol made Anders’ stomach turn, and his discomfort showed in his frown. “My sister… Might be turned into a darkspawn?” the keeper stared at him with wide eyes “I will not allow it! I have to find her!” she exclaimed and was about to cast one of her strange and unique spells that let her travel underground in the embrace of a ball of roots. “Wait!” Amell called after her “We can help you!” The keeper let her forming spell die only to scoff at him. “And why would I need your help? You don’t think I can manage on my own?” Anders threw his hands in the air and left, Nathaniel sighed and shook his head dejectedly, while the two dwarves just turned and left. Amell stood his ground. “It’s not that… You would have a better chance succeeding with our help. We know the darkspawn. We can also sense them if they’re near.” The keeper was contemplating his words for a while before accepting his help. “Their lair is in the abandoned silverite mine. I will escort you through it in exchange for your help to find and rescue my sister!” she stated. Amell shook her stretched out hand with a soft smile. “You have my word on that. By the way, if we’re going to work together, it might be easier if we know each other’s names. I am warden-commander Amell.” The elf pulled her nose but barked “Velanna.” and let go of Amell’s hand as soon as it was possible, like the mere contact could somehow contaminate her.

 


	13. Swordplay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's still a warning for flashback/discussion of past abuse. Please proceed with care! If you see this *** start scrolling until you see them again.

_“D' you breathe the name of your saviour_

_In your hour of need,_

_And taste the blame if the flavour_

_Should remind you of greed?_

_Of implication, insinuation and ill will, 'til you cannot lie still,_

_In all this turmoil, before red cape and foil come closing in for a kill_

_Come feed the rain 'cause I'm thirsty for your love_

_Dancing underneath the skies of lust_

_Yeah, feed the rain_

_'Cause without your love my life_

_Ain't nothing but this carnival of rust…” – “Carnival of Rust” – “Poets of the Fall”_

Anders still had nightmares about what happened in the silverite mines days after they returned to the Vigil. Velanna’s sister indeed turned into a ghoul and was following a strange, sentient Emissary that called itself “The Architect”, and had the whole party trapped inside small cells after drawing some of their blood to use for his experiment. Anders never had such an intense bout of claustrophobia and a panic-attack so severe ever since he was confined in one of the cisterns of Kinloch Hold, years ago. He sprung up in his bunk bed again, soaked in sweat which to him felt like the ice-cold water droplets coming from the walls, sometimes the water getting so high it threatened to drown him, and freeze him to death. He couldn’t breathe, and was shivering for minutes before he finally realized that it was only a dream and he’s safe in the barracks of Vigil’s Keep, his comrades peacefully snoring or – similarly to him - tossing-and turning from a nightmare. He got up to his feet, and wandered out of the small shared space of them to the courtyard, seeing the statue of Andraste and the full moon. The gravel pricked his bare feet but he didn’t care, he let his legs take him wherever they wanted to go. Only when he ended up in front of the commander’s quarters, he realised it probably wasn’t the brightest of ideas. Same as raising his hand and knocking on the door. A little, logical voice somewhere in Anders’ half-asleep mind hoped against hope that Amell didn’t hear the knocking and wouldn’t answer the door. But then said door opened, and the commander stood in front of him, dishevelled from sleep, his hair loose and matted. “What?” he asked on a groggy voice. Anders blinked, and the silence became awkward. “Hey…” he pressed out. “Can you teach me how to swing a sword like you do?”

 

Amell thought he was still asleep and this was only a weird dream. “Excuse me, what?” he asked somewhat sobered. “Teach me how to use a sword! I want to be able to defend myself even if I’m unable to use my magic.” Anders answered. “And you came up with this request in the middle of the night because…?” Amell inquired. Anders had no real answer for that other than pushing him inside the room and leaning with his back to the closed door. “You were right. I’m afraid.” he confessed. “I’m afraid of the Templars catching up with me. The darkspawn overcoming and killing me while I’m helpless and drained. I’m afraid of being vulnerable.” Amell understood his concerns. “I can’t promise anything, but I'll try.” he concluded and took Anders’ hand to pull him along as he sat down on the edge of his bed. It was way more comfortable than the bunk in the barracks. “That’s all I ask.” Anders grinned at him for a moment before hiding his yawn behind his free hand. Amell chuckled and shook his head. They still held onto each other while sitting on the bed, desperately trying to stay awake.

 

Anders tucked his feet under himself and leaned to the bedpost. “Do you mind me?” He finally pressed out, silently scolding himself for taking Amell’s permission to stay for granted. Amell shook his head. “I think it would be too long of a trip for you to go back to the barracks half-naked and barefoot. People will talk anyway.” His thumb brushed Anders’ knuckles. After a while, Anders lay down, his free arm draped around his face to cover his eyes. Amell nudged him and pulled him up to lay on the bed properly before covering both of them with his blanket. It was almost domestic and in a way nostalgic, sleeping together again after all those years. “Remember how we always used to sleep like this when both of us were apprentices?” Anders muttered half-asleep, cuddling with Amell, who settled close to him, wrapping one arm around Andrers’ hip, fingers gently brushing over his bare back, while their legs were a tangled mess under the blanket. “Your feet are still cold enough to remind me.” Amell mumbled into Anders’ chest, making him snicker. “You know, Wynne told me something back then I can’t seem to get out of my head every time we end up close like this…” he kept on musing, his voice resonating through the fog of sleep on the other man’s mind. “What was it?” Amell looked up at Anders with eyes open and wide-awake. “You can take the mage out of the Circle, but you can never take the Circle out of the mage.” he recited. “I know she meant it for something else, but whenever I’m with you like this, like the way we were together before the world went to shit, I am reminded of that ridiculous quote. Because for me, the only thing in the Circle worth remembering is you.” Now it was Anders’ time to be awake. “Oh. Wow. Late night confession time is it then?” he jested to take away the edge of his voice. “I’m sorry I don’t want to freak you out again…” Amell scooted back sheepishly. Anders pulled him closer. “I told you I already had my freakout-moment. I’m hard to surprise at this point, really.” Amell made a crooked smile, and pulled Anders closer to a kiss. It was slower and sweeter than before, lacked the rush and intensity of their post-victory haze, and Anders returned it this time without the urge to get away. Another, very different kind of urge raised its head inside his lower parts.

 ***

“Hard to surprise, eh?” Amell grinned. “It wasn’t surprising at all.” Anders stuck his tongue out, then gave Amell a peck on the neck, while undoing the laces on his breeches he wore for sleeping. Amell didn’t protest, running his slender fingers through Anders’ hair, playing with the silky golden strands he envied since eternity, and wanted to take every opportunity to be able to touch, pulling the other man back into a kiss more passionate than before. Anders yanked Amell’s breeches down and threw them away, followed by his own smallclothes and finally Amell’s loose tunic, and they were skin against skin. Amell was more muscular than Anders remembered, no longer the skinny little apprentice. He ran his hands over Amell’s thigh, and leaned down to whisper “Did I ever tell you that you’re beautiful?” in his ears. Amell let out a low laughter and answered with “Once. When you were drunk.” Anders made a false-indignant “tsk”, prompting Amell to laugh again. He was filled with joy, yet he had no idea what to do, where to touch, where not to… Anders didn’t seem to have that insecurity. Amell felt his skin burn under his touch, scorched by the same heat he had its counterpart rising inside. Their fingers entwined as Anders kissed Amell again, pinning both of his hands down to the mattress, barely leaving room enough to breathe. When Amell did breathe, he let a low moan out, and an intruder in.

_“Be a good boy and open your mouth!”_

The voice Amell heard didn’t belong to Anders. He tried to shove it back to the darkest depths of his mind, and it worked for a short while, he felt himself easing back to Anders’ kisses and caresses, giving him just as many as he received. He loved this man ever since he met him. He wanted this. He wanted to feel how Anders’ kiss taste like, how the touch of his skin or his hands feel like, he wanted to have him, to know him like no one else. One of Anders’ hands ran over Amell’s member and he inhaled sharply, simultaneously wanting to buck his hips upwards and get as far away as possible. 

_“Don’t play shy. You want it don’t you?”_

Amell began to thrash and pushed Anders away defensively, feeling like he’s no longer in Vigil’s Keep, no longer in the arms of the man he loved, but in a confined storage room where he went for some books, and found himself cornered in. Bent over. Not even understanding what was going on, only feeling that it was wrong. And painful. “I’m sorry… I can’t” Amell stuttered and scooted away from Anders, covering himself with the sheets. “All right… I know I’m not bad at this, so it must be something else…” Anders commented with concern. “Want to talk about it?” Amell shrunk into a ball and at first he wanted to shake his head, as he did with Zevran, with Alistair, or anyone who asked him questions about subjects he wasn’t ready to talk about. If he could name one thing he was very grateful about Morrigan, it was her utter and complete disinterest in his sad stories. But Anders was someone he trusted once, wasn’t he? And he also never asked. If they weren’t in this situation together, Amell might actually decline about opening up. He was good at that, shutting up and getting things done instead of wasting thoughts on wrongs already past. “Remember the night you found me crying in the storage room before you escaped?” he asked on a weak voice after a short pause. Anders put one hand on his shoulder, and he sneaked his finger out from under the covers to entwine them with the other man’s. He needed this touch to ground him into the present. “I never told you what happened.” Anders felt like a douchebag. “It was because I never really asked.” Amell’s face contorted into a sad little smile. “I know. And you have no idea how grateful I was for your silence and indifference.” Anders had some vague memories of the night, something about Templars and a ruined toy. But seeing Amell’s reaction to his affection and the way he closed up, Anders suspected there was something more to it. “Wait… Did someone…?” He couldn’t finish the sentence. “Maker…I’m so sorry.” Amell didn’t seem to hear him.

“I still remember how the other apprentices used to laugh at me when I came to class all bruised and my robes were always a mess... That I always said I fell off the stairs, or hit myself on a door, or when I botched spells every time someone accidentally touched me.” His grip on Anders’ hand tightened. “After a while, he didn’t even need to force me to do anything, I was doing whatever he wanted of me willingly… And I never felt clean afterwards. No matter how much I scrubbed, scratched or washed, I always felt filthy. It took years until he got exposed, and it wasn’t even my doing. I was his silent little accomplice.” Amell visibly shuddered. “I guess it was the first of my dirty little secrets.” Now Anders really felt like he got punched in the gut. “How old were you? Ten?” he asked still in shock of the story. “Twelve.” Amell deadpanned. “Who was it?” the cold yet tense tone of the question made Amell shift under his sheets so he can look Anders in the eye. “I know what you think. It wasn't a Templar. One of the Enchanters I studied under. He turned out to be one of Uldred’s goons, so I guess I had my payback later for what he did to me and Cullen.” Anders brushed away some stray strands of hair from Amell’s face. “Wait, wasn’t that fellow your Templar friend?” he asked, stopping mid-motion. Amell nodded.

“When I went back to the Circle during the Blight, it was overtaken by Uldred and a few other mages-turned abominations. They caught Irving and many others, even Templars. Greagoir’s solution of course would be the Right of Annulment, but thankfully I had a say in it, so I went to bring the survivors out.” He sat up and hid his face in his palm. “You know, Cullen was the one who saw what that blighter did to me, and stopped him. He was still only a recruit then, barely older than me, so he had no say in many things but he testified for me and I got another instructor. He was always… I don’t know, nicer than the rest of them. And then I saw what Uldred and his merry gang did to Cullen. He was in a force field, near death and thought I was an illusion. Even after I convinced him that I came to save him, the things he said to me… Well, I can’t blame him for hating us, Anders.” He shook his head. “Sometimes I feel we even deserve all the hate we get.”

Anders pulled him closer into a hug. “Did you tell Irving? Do you suppose he knew?” Amell’s eyes teared up, but he shut them tight. “I felt like I deserved it. I was so ashamed I didn’t dare to talk to anyone, but you. And you were gone.” He took a deep breath to chase away the tears. Anders held him tighter. “I was so afraid to disappoint Irving, and I was so afraid of what would he think of me if I tell him… Besides, it was an Enchanter’s word against an apprentice’s.” Anders sighed. “Well, I guess it’s lucky that it wasn’t a Templar then. At least you got rid of him.” Anders was furious. At himself for being selfish and never even suspecting that his friend was going through hell. At the long-dead mage turned abomination to abuse Amell’s trust and body in a horrible way. At Irving and Greagoir for enabling anything like that to happen and then to go on for years. Amell wasn’t the first to confide a similar story to him, and Anders suspected he won’t be the last either. “Shit.” Amell sighed. “I killed the mood completely am I?” The man had the guts to joke about something like that after confessing what happened to him. Anders shook his head. “We don’t have to do anything like… _that_. We can just sleep.” Amell nodded. “That would be good.” When he looked up at Anders, his eyes shone with all of his unshed tears. “Please don’t leave me alone!” Anders pulled him closer. “Idiot. If you had told me these words all those years ago, I might have stayed. I could have… Done something, I don’t know.” Amell’s embrace became tighter. “Thank you. Please don’t tell anyone…” Anders shook his head. He had no intention of giving this secret away, not even to their mutual friends.

 ***

 

* * *

 

 

For the upcoming days, the rest of the party found amusement in watching Anders muddling with various wooden swords and daggers, trying to find the one with the optimal balance for him to use. So far he only managed to sprain his wrist and bruise his legs. Amell wasn’t the best teacher if it came to someone completely inexperienced with weapons other than staves, and sometimes he ended their sessions early because he got frustrated with Anders’ constant jokes and seemingly lack of focus. Nothing could be more far from truth actually. Anders was indeed focusing, and the torrent of sometimes self-deprecating jokes he showered Amell with were supposed to help his nervousness go away. Nevertheless, he managed to annoy Amell with them, so the commander came up with something partly as payback, partly to spice the training sessions slowly turning to routine up. His road led to the barracks, where the rest of the wardens still resided minus Anders, who spent most of his time with Amell after their ill-fated sleep-together a few nights prior. Nathaniel and Oghren were playing cards when he stepped in. “I think I’ll need your assistance.” Amell addressed Nathaniel. “Certainly, commander.” the other man nodded and stood up from his bench. “What is it that you need my help with?” Amell smirked. “I need you to help me beat Anders up.” “What?” Sigrun joined in from the washroom, wearing an oversized towel, wet hair still sticking to her head. “Hey, what did Anders do? Why do you want to beat him up?” Amell turned to the dwarf “He made the mistake of asking me to teach him to be an Arcane Warrior. I need Nate to help me with his training.” Sigrun nodded. “Oh, I see. But why don’t you ask Oghren to help? He’s the warrior type here.” Amell cackled loudly. “Sig, I love Anders. I wouldn’t put him through training with Oghren...” The dwarf in question gave him the finger making Amell’s grin get wider. “Maybe if he screws up something big time.” Sigrun chuckled. “May I come and watch?” “Why not?” Amell shrugged. After Sigrun got dressed the three of them headed to the training ground. Anders was already there, practicing some manoeuvres with a simple wooden quarterstaff. It didn’t have a blade fixed to it like most mage staves, but it was enough for exercising.

 

Having Nathaniel as help made everything easier. He had the patience to train even the greenest of recruits to use blades, and Sigrun also helped Anders get used to defending himself from an enemy much smaller than he is, highlighted the very vulnerable and often overlooked parts of his body and showed him how to defend against attacks aiming at those aforementioned parts. All in all, it was fun. More fun than Anders wanted to admit, or ever imagined. Among the failings and bruises were the laughs and the successes, so he felt like progressing for the first time in years. He even forgot that he hated to be confined or having to stay somewhere for long. He even joked about being a Grey Warden is like “a stroll through the park with darkspawn” to Amell, when they were outside the Vigil one day, sitting in the grass and discussing what-ifs and opportunities. And Anders was happy because for a long time, these things were nothing more than two boys’ daydreams, and now they had real possibility to become reality. “And what would _you_ do if you didn’t have to be a Grey Warden, stuck with me and all?” Amell asked, poking Anders’ nose with a blade of grass. “I’d be a pirate.” Anders jested. “Captain of a motley crew of fugitives, thieves and slaves, raining fire and lightning on every Chantry-owned vessel that crosses my way, and had a wife in every port from Ferelden to Llomerryn. What about you?” Amell snickered and put the grass away. “Well, if there were no Blight and none of the crap that happened in the Circle were true, I guess after some time I’d be the First Enchanter, and Cullen would be the Knight-Commander of Kinloch Hold. It would be like a beautiful marriage, where we don’t trust each other, try to outsmart and out-sass one another, while at the same time have no one else to confess our headaches to. And we would use and abuse every secret, every vulnerability of each other, slowly forgetting that there was ever a time when we were close, almost like friends.” He concluded. “Cheerful.” Anders deadpanned. “Oh, but it has a good ending.” Amell grinned. “After the long years of mutual emotional and mental torture, Cullen would get a stroke and die. I would stage my own death as well and leave to find my beautiful blond pirate king.” Anders laughed as Amell concluded his tale. “And we would live happily ever after, sailing the waves of the Waking Sea.”

 

Anders smiled and looked up at the clouds gathering above them, signalling oncoming rain. “We should move on. Get back inside the keep before the rain catches us.” They stood up and began walking casually back on the road to Vigil’s Keep. Their hands brushed accidentally sometimes, and not-so accidentally again, same as their glances. “We will get soaked.” Anders predicted from the few raindrops that landed on them followed by many others shortly. “It pretty much looks like.” Amell nodded. A distant rumble of a thunderstorm and a flash of lightning later the rain was pouring down like someone above were emptying barrels of water. Both mages were drenched to the bone when they entered the gates, but they were laughing like kids, trying to outrun the storm. “You know what?” Amell yelled over the thunder and the growing wind. “Let’s make a bet!”

 

Anders swept his wet hair out of his face. “I bet we’re going to catch a cold if we stay outside for much longer.” he riposted. Amell caught his hand and pulled him along as he ran inside the courtyard and under the roof of master Wade’s smithy. Raindrops began to assault the Keep, drumming a cadenceless tune on the shingles. Amell’s gaze wandered from Anders’ inquiring face to the training yard and back. “If you can beat me in close combat I’ll do whatever you want of me.” He stated. Anders made an amused little sound. “So, if I win I can ask you to stand on one foot for a day? Run a circle around the keep in starkers? Only talk in rhyme for a week?” Amell exhaled through his nose which almost sounded like laughing. “I know I’m going to regret this, but yes. You can ask anything of me, and I’ll be bound to obey. Needless to say, if the thing in question is not in my power to fulfil, you have to make a different request.” Anders would be lying if he’d say he wasn’t tempted. He already had tons of requests he wanted to make, and for a moment he was surprised that none of them was about making Amell to let him go. He wanted to stay, ever since their awkward but passionate kiss in that alley in Amaranthine. Which in fact, gave Anders an idea. “Well then. If I whoop your ass in close combat, you have to kiss me in front of everyone. Deal?” Amell’s face went red but he nodded. “Very well. A bet is a bet.” He stretched his arm out and Anders shook his hand. “But don’t forget: You have to defeat me.” Amell reminded Anders.

 


	14. Spoils of War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW content warning. This chapter is basically one long wall of smut. Not even well-written.

_“…The sun is breaking in your eyes_

_To start a new day_

_This broken heart can still survive_

_With a touch of your grace_

_Shadows fade into the light_

_I am by your side_

_Where love will find you…”-“What about now?” – Daughtry_

 They circled around each other, measuring cracks in their defence, sometimes trying the other one with a hit or two. All three of their companions and some of the guards and off-duty soldiers of the Vigil were there, watching the show the two mages put up for them on the training ground. Anders was nervous, he felt like he’s fairly inadequate in his fighting skills regardless of the long hours he spent with training in the past two weeks. He even moved back to the barracks out of it being much closer to the training ground and he didn’t have to climb a set of stairs before he could collapse on his bunk and sleep. All his waking hours were spent on sharpening his skills with his quarterstaff and he was even getting better at wielding swords which weren’t oversized. His train of thoughts were disrupted by Amell’s sweeping attack, nearly knocking him off his feet. “Clumsy!” the silver-haired mage grinned. “Pay attention, or this will be a short match indeed.” Anders tried. Maker knows, he tried his best. Yet he was still a novice in fighting anything without the help of his magic, while Amell had training and gained the upper hand in their little friendly duel in no time. Anders’ mind was racing, looking for holes in Amell’s armour, a way to break the other mage’s concentration, hoping for a chance to at least poke him once. “You go Amell!” Oghren yelled at them from the crowd of onlookers. “Show the skirt-wearing, slack-jawed coward who’s boss!” “Don’t listen to him Anders!” Sigrun joined her fellow dwarf in cheering “You’re doing good!” Some of the soldiers were also cheering for him, and it made him smile. Amell attacked again and Anders had a wild idea that was crazy enough to work. He evaded the commander’s staff and leaned on his own, kicking Amell in the face. “Ow! No dirty tricks!” Amell objected. “Whatever it takes, eh?” Anders smirked.

 

“Whatever it takes.” Amell nodded, then swung his staff at Anders’ right side ignoring his “hey!” which was more surprised than angry. “Guard up!” Amell lectured his friend while he kept on assaulting him. “If this match would be a real duel to the death, you’d be lying on the floor already.” Anders evaded Amell’s attack – he was good at evading things that might hurt him, he knew – and retaliated with another sweeping, knocking Amell off from his feet. “I bet that stung.” Anders grinned smugly at Amell, who kicked his feet from under him, making the other man stagger and nearly fall. This gave enough time for Amell to stand up. “It’s not over yet!” Amell said on a sing-song tone, then turned his staff in his hand, ready for another blow. Anders scooted away and took a defensive stance, holding his own staff in front of him. He was glad he could convince Amell to change the weapon of choice for the match from swords to staves. He wanted to have a chance at winning. Not only because of their bet, but he wanted to see Amell’s haughty grin disappear as he knocks him out for good. “It will be!” He riposted with a similar melody and a strike. Amell anticipated it and blocked the staff with his own, but the boot in his shin took him by surprise. _“Anders could be a great rogue if he weren’t already a mage”_ Amell thought, seeing the multitude of dirty tricks his friend made in an effort to unbalance him. He got dirt in his eyes, multiple kicks in his legs and once he even got head-butted but Anders regretted it, because of the dizziness that prevented him from blocking Amell’s counterattack. It was only a small victory, for Anders retaliated with thrusting his staff into the small opening in Amell’s tabard, right into his stomach, pushing him a few feet away. As he doubled over, Anders swung his staff and hit Amell’s chin knocking him off-balance and onto the floor. The duel was over.

 

“Well, I won…” Anders stated carefully. “And at least I wasn’t swooping on you.” Amell permitted himself a sound that closely resembled snickering while he stood up. “Nicely done…” he pressed out. “I think I’ll have bruises.” Anders shrugged and Amell felt a wave of healing magic rush through him. “Not anymore!” Amell shook his head and pulled Anders closer, whispering “remember our bet?” into his ear, flicking his earring. “Now that you mention it…” Anders whispered back with a self-satisfied smirk. Amell wanted to do this since eternity, every time he saw this face. They heard the whistles and booing of the crowd made of their comrades and soldiers as their lips met. Oghren shouted something on the lines of “Don’t be gross in front of everyone, it’s not fair!” which made Anders deepen the kiss, his tongue exploring the territory of Amell’s. “Come to my quarters at nightfall!” Amell breathed into Anders’ mouth before breaking away from him. Both of them were grateful for their metal-laced tabards, for it covered something very embarrassing. As Anders watched Amell leave and mingle with the rest of the staff of the Vigil, he thought that nightfall can’t come soon enough. He was distracted by a slap on his back which would end up on his ass if it would miss only an inch. “Ow!” Anders cried out. “Was that necessary?” Sigrun grinned up at him. “Where did you learn to fight like that? It was awesome.” she cheered. Anders laughed. “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.” “Try me!” the dwarf nudged him. “Well… Before I ended up in Amaranthine, and before I had to escape the Circle again for the last time, I was working in a brothel in Denerim… The women there taught me some defensive skills…” he spread his arms and shrugged. Sigrun’s grin got wider. “So you say you were fighting like a girl?” Anders snickered. “Well, I don’t find this offensive anyhow. Those girls I learned these tricks from… They were a fierce lot. And they defended their own.” his smile disappeared as he remembered the Templars’ treatment of the “wicked harlots” that harboured an apostate. “I bring trouble everywhere I go…” he sighed. “Good!” Sigrun crossed her arm “At least we’re never get bored with you around!” Anders permitted himself to laugh a little. “Well, that’s one way to put it.” Sigrun took a glance at the slowly disappearing crowd and the warden-commander, now conversing with one of the soldiers. “I guess you have a date tonight?” she asked. “Well, I think it remains to be seen.” Anders answered. “Anyway, time for me to get to the infirmary and see if anyone else’s pride and bruises need healing.”

 

* * *

 

 

It was true, nightfall couldn’t come soon enough. Anders was busy with making bandages and cleaning up the infirmary, so the surgeon won’t chew his ear off. He went to dinner with Sigrun, Nate and Oghren, the latter shooting disapproving glances and bad jokes at his direction, but Anders ignored it this time. His heart skipped a beat when Amell sat down next to him, casually talking with the rest of their little company. They behaved for Oghren’s sake, but left the cantina as soon as both of them were done with their meals. Anders dragged Amell into a dark corner and he would have him then and there if he would be a less patient man. They both tasted like wine and gruel, but none of that mattered in the heat of the moment. Amell let his hands loose on Anders’ back, never breaking the kiss that gradually took his breath away. He wanted to tear the dark blue and grey uniform off of Anders, to feel his skin again, but the dark depths in his mind threatened to open up and release his demons. Someone approached them, and Amell patted his lover’s shoulder to raise his awareness and broke away from the kiss. A soldier went past them, wishing a good evening for both wardens before continuing her patrol. “We’re not far…” Amell commented after the soldier’s form disappeared behind a turn on the corridor. It only took a few steps, and a few more. “So…” Anders grinned, pulling Amell along as he opened the door to the commander’s quarters “…Where did we leave off?” They heard another set of footsteps approaching and distancing on the corridor, giving Amell enough time to make up his mind. After the disaster their last attempt at intimacy turned into, he seriously doubted he could ever go through with having sex with Anders. Or anyone, really. “I wanted to give something for you…” he pressed out cautiously and stepped back from the door and the man leaning to it. “Is it a kitten?” Anders asked playfully making Amell smile sheepishly and turn around, going through the contents of his footlocker, and was still snickering when he fished the intended gift out of the footlocker’s depths. “Here! This one’s for you.” he handed the small package over to Anders. “Ooh, is it my birthday already?” The other mage mused. “Wait, no it’s in the end of Cloudreach. May I ask what’s the occasion?” Amell’s pale face went red. “Um… Justbecauseday?” Anders chuckled. “I think I like Justbecauseday.” he sat down on Amell’s bed to open the small pack, and found a golden earring, a map of the ancient Tevinter Imperium, and a nice wool scarf inside. “You shouldn’t have…” he said looking up at Amell, who made a silly little grin. “Shouldn’t have, but did it all the same.” He answered. “If it comforts you, you aren’t the only one getting presents for Justbecauseday.” Anders crossed his arms and mock-frowned. “And here I was, thinking that I’m special.” Amell sat beside Anders, and caressed his face “You are.” he let his hand fall to his lap. “Dammit. I’m making you uncomfortable, am I?” Anders reached out and took his hand. “We already talked about this. You’re not making me uncomfortable. If anyone, I should be more careful around you, not the other way around.”

 

Amell kept on staring at his boots, while his mind was racing franticly. Eventually it was Anders, who snapped him out of it with a gentle kiss. “I think I should properly thank you for the gift…” he muttered into Amell’s ear after they separated. “Are you all right with that?” Amell’s blush was a unique shade of red, and Anders feared that he has a severe stroke for a moment before he cast his gaze down and mumbled something on the lines of “You already thanked me.” Anders chuckled. “Well, then I guess I shall take my leave.” He stood up, but was pulled back almost instantly by Amell’s hand. “I didn’t say you should leave.” he stated nervously. He exhaled loudly, trying to control his dancing nerves but he failed. “What’s wrong?” Anders asked, unfolding Amell’s fingers from his arm and entwining them with his own. “I’m such a failure…” Amell laughed. “I want you… I want to sleep with you…” Anders grinned. “Oh, please do go on. It’s intriguing.” Amell stared at him with his face still red as a beetroot. “I wanted to for a long time, but… I can’t. I can’t make myself do it.” He remembered his first and only attempt with Zevran. The elf was much more skilled than him, and wasn’t judgemental at all, yet Amell never sought his companionship after their night together. Morrigan was furious anyway. She hid her pain and jealousy behind harsh criticism and disdainful comments about literally anything Amell did afterwards, right until their final night together before she disappeared. And even then he was unable to do anything but let her take the rein. “It seems I suck at this so bad that everyone who ever slept with me left after the first attempt... Second at best.” he tried to joke but even that sounded so awkward and forced, he decided to shut up and not look at Anders’ face. He didn’t want to see the same pity or judgement he saw in his previous partners’ expressions.

 

Anders’ heart sank. Especially since he knew the true reason behind Amell’s perceived failure. He squeezed his hand, trying to bring some sort of reassurance. “Sometimes I feel like I’m not even there, you know…” Amell went on. “Like it was someone else and it weren’t happening to me. It doesn’t matter if I like it or not.” He ran his fingers through his hair, his nervousness getting the best of him. Anders leaned closer and turned Amell’s face towards him. “You’re perhaps just in need of a little practice.” He smiled. Amell’s distress eased a bit. “Do you… Do you think that would help?” Amell asked sheepishly. “I don’t know.” Anders confessed. “But we could try. If you’re all right with it, I mean.” Amell nodded. He knew he wanted this, but words escaped him as he was looking into that familiar pair of golden eyes. Anders leaned closer and kissed him again, melting the rest of Amell’s hesitation. He cautiously raised his hand and ran his fingers through his lover’s hair, untangling his ponytail. Anders pushed him until his back touched the bedpost. Amell gathered his resolve and leaned closer, lips barely parted and eyes closed, planting a hesitant peck on Anders’ mouth, gradually becoming bolder as his partner deepened it into a proper kiss. No pesky voices from the past bothered Amell this time. He undid the buckles and ties of Anders’ tabard and shoulder-piece, so he could get rid of those by carelessly throwing them on the floor. His own clothes followed soon. He ran his fingers down Anders’ torso, feeling the soft little hairs trailing down and disappearing under his smalls. Amell’s hand followed their trail, his fingers folding around his partner’s hard member. Anders made a low moan as Amell began to move his hand carefully, hesitantly, maddeningly slowly. “You want me to stop…?” Amell asked, breaking the kiss but only moving an inch away, so his lips still brushed Anders’ as he spoke. “Maker, no!” Anders answered.  

 

“Tell me what you want…” Amell whispered into his lover’s ear. Anders wasn’t so blinded with lust that he would forget about his partner’s predicament. “I want you to forget your demons.” he whispered back. “I can help you, if you let me.” Amell nodded, and let Anders take control, pushing him down on his sheets, getting rid of the last remnants of their clothing. “I will only do what you let me.” Anders explained to Amell. “But what if I don’t know what I want?” he asked back. “Well then… It complicates matters, but at least it will be fun finding out.” Anders flashed a crooked smile at Amell, and he forgot his demons existed in an instant. His former friend-turned lover was much more experienced and skilled than he, but unlike before, he wasn’t embarrassed or ashamed because of it. Anders coaxed many delighted gasps and groans out of Amell using everything he had. He knew he has to go slowly and carefully with his fellow mage, so he took his time exploring every inch of Amell’s body. It only bothered him a little that Amell was so silent. It reminded him of the Circle, so he went to great lengths to change that. There were no Templars here in Vigil’s Keep. Nothing to be afraid of save for straggling darkspawn, but they were dealt with. Amell bit Anders’ lower lip for a moment before trying to push him away. “What’s wrong?” He asked. “Nothing…” Amell answered “I just don’t want it to end so soon…” He smiled sheepishly. Anders grinned. “Well, we can always go again, you know. The night is young.” Amell’s smile was companied by a blush. His hands ran up Anders’ hip and his sides, then back again, stopping only on his butt. “What’s on your mind?” Anders nudged Amell’s nose with his own. “You.” Amell answered “Riding me.” Anders’ chuckled and threw one of his long legs over Amell’s hip, sitting up to straddle him. “You mean like this?” He began to grind himself slowly against Amell, who inhaled sharply because of the friction. “Exactly.” He pressed out, causing Anders to stifle a chuckle. “I could do that for you…” He leaned down taking Amell’s hand in his “But I will need some help.” Amell concentrated for a moment and conjured a lesser grease spell in his hand, then he let Anders guide their entwined hands behind him. Amell let the substance drip down from his hands onto his lover’s lower-back and bottom before he would dare to work his entrance open with a finger. Anders’ whole body jerked at the sensation, and he let out a low moan as another digit joined the previous one. Amell withdrew his fingers pretty shortly, leaving Anders wanting, feeling a void inside him that is filled with his lover’s cock the next moment. They paused for a short while, waiting for Anders to adjust to Amell, breathing faster with every tentative thrust the silver-haired man makes.

 

It was a long time ago since someone took him this way, Anders couldn’t help but think. He held both of Amell’s hands and pinned them to the mattress next to his head, fingers entwined. He never stopped grinding, his movement in cadence with Amell’s, who lost himself in the sensation, perhaps for the first time in his life. Anders leaned closer and kissed him, his long golden locks covering them like a curtain. Amell thinks of the sun whenever he sees the golden shine the light of the candles cast on Anders’s hair, or the way his amber eyes become two tiny suns themselves, reflecting the reddish gleam of the embers in the fireplace. Amell is his moon, getting light and warmth from his sun, only a cold and lifeless piece of rock without. Amell freed one of his hands and caressed Anders’ hair, his touch gliding over his shoulder, ribs, going ever down until he once again wraps his fingers around his rock-hard member, painfully craving attention. Anders gasped and moved faster, holding onto Amell’s hand and the bedpost as he rocked his hips. His lips eventually found their way back to his lover’s, exchanging a short kiss between rasping breath, signalling the imminent end of their joining. Amell needed to hold on to Anders with both hands as he filled him with his seed, trembling and calling out his lover’s name, holding him so close Anders couldn’t breathe for a second before his own release made a mess of them.  

 

“That was…” Amell said between panting “…Better than what I anticipated.” “Well, thank you.” Anders snorted “I’ll be here all week.” Amell’s lips stretched into a smile “I certainly hope so.” He kissed the blond again, running his hands all over Anders’ back, sides, shoulders… He simply couldn’t get enough of him, and Anders didn’t seem to mind the affection. “I could do this all night; you know…” he purred like a cat. Amell let go of him, not really knowing what to do. He got up and went to the washroom to clean himself and to steal a little time to think. He got no such a thing, for Anders was right behind. “What’s wrong?” He asked with concern. “Did I say something? Or did something?” Amell shook his head. “No…” He sighed and pulled the other man close. “I’m just confused.” Anders made a low chuckle “About what?” “A lot of things.” Amell pressed out. “Is it all right if I keep on holding you?” Anders smiled and caressed Amell’s back. “Of course. Just let me wash myself first.” Amell took a few steps away and watched as Anders conjured water into the large stone tub and struggled to heat it with a fire spell. “Can I…?” He asked tentatively then his hands began to blaze. Anders stepped away from the tub as Amell worked to heat the water to an optimal warmth. “You’re good with this.” he commented and Amell blushed. “Thanks.” They sat in the water for a short while before returning to the bed, snuggling under the blanket, legs tangled. “We should have done it sooner.” Anders jested “I wished it were you so many times I lost count.” Amell confessed. “Sometimes I tried to imagine it was you, but it only made it worse.” he shook his head. “No, I guess this is how it should be. Let at least what we have not be tainted.” Anders gave Amell a peck on the top of his head. “I wanted to take you with me. But it would be too dangerous and Templars would catch up faster with two mages on the run than with only one. I’m sorry it looked like I was abandoning you.” He really felt sorry. Though he knew very well that right until they met again in Vigil’s Keep, he seldom thought about Amell or the other mages left behind in the Circle. He was content with his own freedom, and that was enough. Amell didn’t make a sound, he snuggled as close to Anders as it was possible and listened to his heartbeat. He had a dream- or rather a wishful thought – of the two of them living together, far away from Templars and Circles and even the rest of humanity. It was a pleasant thought, and he carried it with himself as he fell asleep.

 


	15. Let the Serpent In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back dearests, this is another re-upload with minimal changes. 
> 
> The male Tabris cameo is still here, because reasons, also the warnings for mentions of assault and sexual harrassment/rape.

_“…I feel a storm is looming_

_With a shaking grumble_

_I don’t know if I’m right or wrong_

_I don’t know if I shall go on_

_I don’t know what I’ll believe, but I’m on my way…” – “Ghostlights” - Avantasia_

 

The next day Amell surprised each one of his small circle with something for “justbecauseday”. Sigrun got a book she was eyeing in the library for a while, Oghren was surprised with a bottle of rare ale and Nathaniel got some basic necessities he seemed to lack and a new deck of cards. They didn’t know what to make of it, but were grateful nonetheless. Amell asked Nathaniel and Oghren to set patrols on the roads going through the Wending Wood, to avoid even more caravans getting sacked and attacked, and he himself, Anders and Sigrun went out to the nearby farmlands and aided the people there. There were some straggling darkspawn around they got rid of, but the frequency of their sightings and attacks were alarming. Amell planned to check in with the nobles or the guards in Amaranthine to be sure that at least the city is well protected.

 

It was well into the month of Kingsway when the guards reported a small company of riders approaching the keep one morning. The commander and companions were standing on top of the battlements, looking at the dust cloud getting ever closer. “Aw damn.” Amell groaned, watching the small army of Grey Wardens ride into the Vigil. “I should have expected them sooner or later.” “Who are these folks?” Anders asked. “I wrote to the Orlesians about what happened, and about Kristoff’s disappearance, and asked for reinforcements. These people should be them.” Amell answered, then flicked an invisible lint off of his tabard then cast a sheepish glance at Anders. “How do I look?” “Uh… With your eyes?” the blond mage answered. “Ha! Good one!” Oghren snickered. “Anders…” Amell groaned in annoyance. “All right, all right. You look fabulous. The Orlesians will be jealous.” Anders jested. “Don’t worry about it, commander!” Sigrun advised. “They’re here at least. We could use reinforcements.” Amell nodded and turned with his companions to follow the riders into the courtyard.

 

As they approached the large man in a winged helmet leading them, Anders felt a growing sense of dread. He couldn’t quite tap a finger on its source, but he had a suspicion that it might be the other man getting off of his horse behind the leader. The way he carried himself and his heavy warden armour, he reminded Anders of a Templar. Especially after said man saw the staff on his back and an expression of contempt set roots on his face. Anders knew from that moment the man will be trouble. “Warden-commander Amell!” the warden in the winged helmet stepped closer, removing his headwear to greet his superior. “I am warden-constable Chavel, at your service.” they shook hands and the Orlesian warden took a look around. “You made good progress with the keep, if I may say.” Amell smiled and nodded curtly. “Thank you. Yet there is still a lot of work to be done, and I summoned you because we are in dire need of reinforcements.” Amell glanced at his companions behind him and the newcomers behind Chavel. “How about we discuss the necessary course of action after you settled in?” he offered. “Come and find me at my office when you and your men occupied your places in the barracks!” The warden-constable nodded as acknowledgement and they parted ways.

 

Nathaniel tapped Amell’s shoulder when they were out of hearing range. “Don’t get me wrong commander, but we have a lot of good soldiers in our care. Why not conscript some of them?” Anders grinned and couldn’t stop himself from asking “Oh, it seems I’m not the only one getting bad vibes from Messere Baguette and company. Especially that fellow who looks like a Templar.” Nathaniel turned his face to look at Anders, then turned back to Amell. “Anders is right. I saw the way they were looking at both of you. They will make trouble.” Amell nodded. “Thank you, Nate. I will keep that in mind. And as for conscripting from our soldiers…” he scoffed “Well, you all know what the Joining is. Would you wish it on any of them?” They silenced and Nathaniel shook his head. “I would not, but it seems we might have to consider it. I don’t trust the Orlesians one bit.” Amell smiled at him. “Then that makes two of us.” “Three.” Anders inserted. “Four.” Oghren grumped. “Count the lass in as well.” he nudged Sigrun. She was unusually silent, glancing back at the courtyard every now and then. “They might not be trouble. I guess they just want to know about Kristoff and what happened with his men. We could tell them what we found.” Amell nodded. “It’s not much though. But in any case, now we’ll have the manpower to assemble a search party to the Blackmarsh. If the poor man is still alive out there somewhere.”  

 

* * *

 

 

He told them so after gathering Chavel, his second-in-command Rolan, and Nathaniel and Anders in the office which felt a bit small and crowded at the moment. His two companions stood at Amell’s sides while Rolan was at Chavel’s back, glaring daggers. “Are you sure that our former commander is out in this ‘Blackmarsh’ then?” the warden-constable asked. “All the leads were pointing to that direction.” Amell shrugged. “Sadly, we didn’t have enough time or manpower to follow said leads and investigate. Yet.” Chavel hummed approvingly. “And you plan to go search there?” he queried again after a short pause. Amell drummed a cadenceless tune on his desk with his fingers before answering. “Indeed. With your help, of course.” Chavel was deep in thought for a while. “Commander, if I may ask… Why haven’t you fill your ranks to prevent being so undermanned?” Amell felt the blood run to his face. There were a lot of things he considered then didn’t do in the end. Seeing Anders and Nathaniel and Sigrun lying on the floor seemingly dead did nothing for his resolve to never inflict this curse on anyone else. “I, uh… I considered.” Amell stammered. “But as I said, there were many things needed to be done, and we had no time to look for promising recruits as of yet.” Anders stifled a snicker and envied Nathaniel’s ability to keep a straight face in nearly every situation. He knew Amell was lying through his teeth and it was good to see that his title alone was enough for the Orlesians to believe him.

 

Chavel ordered Rolan out, and asked to talk with Amell in private. The commander cast a pleading look at Nathaniel, who grabbed Anders’ arm and dragged him out to the corridor. When the door closed behind them, Chavel turned to Amell. “Forgive me for asking commander, but… How long have you been with the Wardens?” Amell swallowed the knot that was tying his throat. “Well, I have to admit that I only became a warden a year ago.” “Do you have any experience with running a keep, or organising a military force?” Chavel inquired further. Amell felt his blood pressure rising. “No. I do not.” he answered. “I was in Ferelden’s Circle of Magi until I got conscripted by former warden-commander Duncan, and took my Joining before the battle at Ostagar.” Chavel nodded. “Just how much your former commander told you?” he queried. “About what?” Amell snapped as response. “Everything.” the Orlesian leaned closer and crossed his hands in front of his nose. “Do not get me wrong, slaying an Archdemon is a legendary feat, and deserving of the greatest honour. But I would really like to hear the tale of how did you survive to ascend into leading our ranks in Ferelden.”

 

Amell felt like someone stabbed a dagger in his heart. “I did what I had to do.” He evaded the real answer. He knew he could never tell anyone about their ritual with Morrigan, for he will risk persecution of his former love and their child. And despite their odds and differences, he never wished any ill upon her. “Very well.” Chavel leaned back, apparently satisfied with the answer. “I think it would be better if someone could advise you on matters that concern the order, if you don’t mind me suggesting.” Amell calmed a bit but the smarminess of the constable grated on his nerves. “I shall take it under consideration.” he said aridly. “And if you don’t mind yet another suggestion,” Chavel went on “I would also take into consideration to visit Amaranthine and the nearby farmlands and see if there are people suitable for recruiting. Our numbers are still low, even with my men.” It was true, the Orlesians only sent a handful of wardens, barely more than Amell and his company. “Very well.” Amell sighed. He felt like he was drained of will and of life itself. He rubbed his nose-bridge to chase away the unsettling feeling. “I shall trouble you no further, commander.” Chavel stood up. “Please, if you’re ready to send a search party to the Blackmarsh, don’t hesitate to call on me and my men! We’re under your command.” Like he needed reminding. Amell nodded and gestured to Chavel to leave.

 

* * *

 

As soon as the door closed behind them, Anders turned and pressed his ear on the door, trying to get any sound escaping from the room. Nathaniel hid his face in his palm. “You won’t hear a thing, believe me.” The mage stepped back and kicked a column before crossing his arms and leaning to the wall next to the archer. “I don’t like this.” Anders grumbled. “This Chavel person is up to something. Not to state the obvious…” Nathaniel snorted. They only noticed Rolan leaning to the wall on the other side of the doorframe when he scoffed at Anders’ suspicion. “It is no surprise that you fear the constable.” he commented, instantly getting the mage’s attention and a glare that could set even a block of ice ablaze. “I know what you are.” Rolan went on “I heard the rumours about you, Anders. You and your fellow apostate might think you got away with the murder of a whole company of Templars, but judgement day will come to you. Sooner you might expect.” Nathaniel pushed himself from the wall and stood between Anders and Rolan. “Are you threatening one of our senior wardens? Should I remind you that it is unwise to anger the commander?” Rolan sneered at him. “And should I remind you, that I do not answer to your blighted commander, but my own?”

 

Nathaniel laughed curtly and dismissively. “Whatever is your problem with Commander Amell, King Alistair appointed him to his post.” “And that proves what exactly?” Rolan asked derisively “The law says that no mage can have a title or own a land. Yet here it is. One exception that can set a dangerous example. If your kind can infiltrate the best of us, what will it make of this world?” Anders felt his hand balling into a fist he wished he could introduce to Rolan’s face. Nathaniel probably sensed his anger for he pushed Anders a few inches away, forcing him to put more distance between himself and the obnoxious warden. “Still, your superior answers to mine, and you can bet your smart ass that he’ll hear of your accusations.” he stated firmly. Rolan’s sneer became wider. “Have it your way, senior warden Howe.” he mock-bowed to Nathaniel then rose up to leave. “But be sure that I will keep an eye on you, and your pet mage.” After he left Nate turned back to Anders, who still glared daggers into Rolan’s general direction. “Could you come with me to the training grounds?” he nudged the mage to snap him out of his seething rage. “Sure.” Anders replied. “I’m in dire need to punch something anyway.”

 

* * *

 

Amell indeed considered getting a few more recruits, yet he was still unsure of where to look for recruits. Chavel suggested Amaranthine, and he planned to go there when he was done with some paperwork. He went out to the courtyard to get some fresh air, ignoring the torrent of rain and ice-cold wind. After a year spent out under the open sky, he never got bothered by the cold. As he treaded the garden at the back of the courtyard, he heard a faint mew, and turned his head to see where it came from. Another mewl pointed him to the direction of one of the small houses and a broken wooden crate. As he kneeled down to see what’s under the pieces of the former container, a tiny red-tabby kitten stuck its nose out to sniff at Amell’s hand. “Are you hungry little fella?” he asked waiting for the kitty to climb onto his hand, cradling it and sheltering it from the rain. “Let’s see what’s in the kitchen, shall we?” Despite having a mabari hound for a while, Amell was always fonder of felines. Another trait he had in common with Anders. Even the dog was aware of this, for eventually, he joined Alistair in the royal palace. Amell knew the mabari is well taken care of, so he seldom thought about it, but having the tiny ball of fur in his hands made him think back to those days a year ago.

 

He arrived at the kitchen, and sat beside the fireplace, letting the kitten warm while getting some leftovers for it to nibble on. When it was done with eating, Amell took it into his hands again, gently stroking its fur and listening to its loud purring. That was the moment when Anders entered the kitchen as well, originally on a snack-hunt, but he saw Amell sitting next to the fire, cradling something. “What are you doing here…” he asked, then gasped delightedly when he saw the reason Amell was curled up next to the furnace. “Aww, look at the pretty kitty!” Anders cooed at the little furball in his friend’s hands. “You’re the prettiest kitty in the whole world and I love you. I shall name you Ser Pounce-a-Lot.” “Ser Pounce-a-Lot?” Amell laughed. “Cats are majestic creatures.” Anders explained, scratching the little red tabby’s head. “They need similar names.” “You mean ridiculous ones?” Amell asked, still smiling. “Don’t listen to him, Ser Pounce-a-Lot. He’s a cad. A wonderful, generous, lovely cad, but a cad nonetheless.” Anders went on, still ruffling the kitten’s fur. Amell handed it over to Anders. “Well, I think you should keep him.” Anders hugged Ser Pounce-a-Lot, while looking at the door. “I don’t know. We get into all kinds of trouble; it wouldn’t be safe.” “He could stay in the keep if we go out on some dangerous mission or the other.” Amell persuaded. “Well, all right. I’ll keep him. Until I find him a better place. Is that okay with you Ser Pounce-a-Lot?” Anders cooed again and the kitten meowed. “Will you let me hold you and carry you everywhere? Of course you’ll let me.” he kept on cooing to the kitten and Amell smiled. He missed being silly with Anders.

 

* * *

 

 

Later that day they were on the road to Amaranthine, and Nathaniel told his concerns about Rolan. “He didn’t actively threaten you or Anders, but he will cause trouble, and that is as certain as we are treading this long trail of dirt and mud.” he concluded. Amell nodded. “I was afraid that you will say so. Rolan indeed was a Templar in Denerim’s Chantry before joining the Grey Wardens so I heard. I will expect him to throw a crowbar into the dwarf siege engine.” Nathaniel silenced and looked up at Amaranthine’s gates as they passed through it. Amell was talking with Constable Aiden about recent additions to the dungeons, and asked for permission to see if there are any of them suitable for their cause. Nathaniel wasn’t happy about recruiting from the city’s shady elements, but he knew one thing about the Wardens for sure, and it was that many of them started their lives as outcasts and criminals. He had no illusions about their true motive, yet he felt it was a small chance at righting the wrongs those people might committed in life.

 

The small company went inside the city guard’s headquarters, waiting for the necessary paperwork to be done. Amell looked at his companions, and decided that not all of them are needed right now. “Nate, could you, Oghren and Sigrun go to the Chantry and see the chanter’s board? We’ll meet you at the Crown and Lion with the new recruits.” he asked. Amell was particularly proud of his way of being a commander who never really had to command anything. Nathaniel nodded and shepherded the dwarves out of the small office. “Why them and not me?” Anders inquired. “I need you to come along.” Amell explained. “Oh come on, you just wanted to be alone with me. Admit it!” the blond jested. The commander snorted. “I will be alone with you at night though.” he added which made Anders stick his tongue out at him. “Very mature.” Amell said sarcastically. The city guard arriving to escort them down to the dungeons had a deadpan look on his face the whole time.  

 

* * *

 

 

They stopped in front of a small cell and their escorting guardsman pointed at the single elf sitting inside, defiantly eyeing the dirty wall next to him. “This one’s been transferred here from Denerim, just before the Blight.” the guard told Amell and Anders. “Name’s Darrian Tabris, and is accused of murder. Have no idea why he isn’t dangling from a noose yet, but I’m not the one pulling the strings.” Anders snorted. “Pulling the strings... That was dark.” The elf ignored their existence. Amell shooed the guard away, and turned to the elf. “Care to tell me your story?”

 

The prisoner deigned to look at him from under a mop of messy hair that once may have been strawberry-blond; his eyes reflected the light of the single torch. “I have no intention to be your amusement, human.” Amell shrugged. “So be it. But I may be your only chance to get out of here. Not many people accused of murder gets a second chance.” The elf cackled bitterly. “Shove your charity. I’ll rather die than to be some _shem_ ’s servant or slave. I had enough of that.” Amell leaned to the bars, playing with a stray strap of leather on his gloves. “You are mistaken if you think what I offer for you is charity.” he kept on with his casual tone. “You probably noticed the uniform aren’t you? I don’t know how much you guys in the Alienage know about Grey Wardens, but we aren’t the guys running around to offer charity and empty prayers. I’ll leave that shit to the Chantry.” He turned towards the elf, leaning his forehead on his arm. “So? One story is all it takes for you to get out. And if you don’t want to accept my offer well, you don’t have to. I just want to know what happened.”

 

Darrian glared at him, but eventually, he sighed and scooted closer, dragging a pair of chains and an iron ball. “Want to know my story? All right, I’ll tell you. Need all the gory details?” Amell shrugged. “I’m not squeamish.” Darrian eyed him suspiciously, then began to speak. “It was my wedding day. Those people came uninvited, but causing a ruckus wasn’t enough. They took my sisters and my bride, after they knocked me and my father and half of the gathered family members unconscious. I went after them when I came to, and found my bride dead, one of my sisters dead, and the other violated. That piece of shit thought he can pay me for looking the other way and keep my mouth shut. Well, he was wrong. And I made sure he’ll never make the same mistake again.” Venom still dripped from his words along with a twisted sort of satisfaction as he went on. “I slaughtered them like dogs. I only wish I could be faster, so I could save everyone instead of only one of my sisters.”

 

Amell stared at the elf with a neutral expression, but his eyes reflected some coldness they usually lacked. “And I would do it again, do not doubt it.” Darrian concluded. Amell nodded. “Then you belong with us.” The elf snorted. “Why? I just told you I murdered a score of your kind in cold blood, and that I don’t even regret it.” he shook his head. Amell’s face contorted into a creepy smile that never seemed to reach his eyes. “First: they weren’t ‘my kind’. Second: You did what anyone with a sense of good conscience and a bit of courage would do in your place.” Darrian looked at him like he wouldn’t believe his eyes. Amell straightened his posture. “You had your vengeance. I’m offering you a chance at redemption. Will you take it?” Anders had the urge to laugh at his friend and commander’s dramatic choice of words, but the elf sitting in the dirt in front of him seemed to bite. “Anything is better than rotting in this cell.” Amell held his hand out, and the elf stood up to shake it. Amell called the guard and ordered him to release the prisoner. Anders felt a small rush of sympathy for the elf, as he stumbled out from the tiny cell and had that look on his face. The same look Anders saw on way too many mages seeing the outside world for the first time. Or seeing the outside world after months of imprisonment under the Circle tower. He still couldn’t help but ask after the guard escorted Darrian out of their vicinity. “And since when do you condone vendettas?” Amell’s face was still a mask carved from ice. “Ever since I let the current king lop the head of the former king’s general off in front of the Landsmeet.”

 

* * *

 

 

As they passed another cell a familiar female voice called after them. “Excuse me, ser!” Amell slowed his pace, letting Anders get ahead of him. The woman called after them again. “Warden commander!” Both mages stopped and went back to the cell across from Darrian’s now empty one. It was another elf, in tattered clothes and somehow familiar. Amell took a step backward when she nearly threw herself at the bars, eager to get out. “I doubt you remember me, but we met here in the tavern a month ago. I’m Elora, you healed me and my friend…” her voice trailed off and she inhaled the stale, malodourous air to keep her from breaking into sobs. “I have done nothing wrong, ser. You have to believe me!” Amell looked at Anders and back to Elora, and felt his heart sink. “What happened to you? I thought you’ll be on your way to Rivain with the next ship.” he pressed out, trying to comfort the elf by putting his hand over hers. “We wanted to get to Denerim, to someone we heard to have a ship.” she explained. “Flavius was so excited, he barely travelled anywhere by land. Then the Templars found us and Flavius tried to reason with them.” Anders snorted. “That never works out well, I know that much.” Elora nodded. “It didn’t. Those men…” she heaved a heavy sigh. “The time I came to my senses they put Flavius in chains and hauled me next to him as well, claiming I committed a crime by helping him. I couldn’t get any answer from them, and ended up here, rotting in this Maker-damned cell. I have to get out of here…” she sniffled. Amell let go of her hand to look into her eyes as he stated “I am not here to offer charity. I told your next-cell neighbour such. If you want me to get you out, you’ll have to come with us to Vigil’s Keep.” “Is that it?” Elora snorted. “I’ll go to the Black City itself if it would free me from this cell.” Anders rubbed his temples and called the guard before Amell could say anything else. Elora was grateful, but she only managed a curt nod and a smile before she too was taken out of the dungeon.

 

Amell felt an unmanageable amount of guilt. He knew he’ll have to tell every single recruit the true nature of their “chance at redemption”, and he already felt like a monster for doing this to them. Yet part of him believed that if they survive the Joining, they might truly be able to do some good for a change. They got three more recruits from various places. One pickpocket, a notorious gambler and one fellow who got imprisoned over debts he couldn’t repay in a lifetime. Amell conscripted all of them. Anders already had more than enough of the dungeons for the day, and he kept on nagging Amell to leave. He gave in and the two of them headed towards the staircase leading up to the courtyard when Amell saw someone he thought curious. The man sitting in the cell in front of them was huge even without wearing any armour. Anders glared at him the whole time, while Amell stood in front of the bars of his cell. He pegged the man to be of Chasind origin, and found him oddly familiar. “I know why you’re here.” the prisoner grumbled after a while. “Oh, you do?” Amell asked on a cheerful tone. “Then I might just skip introductions and pleasantries and ask you straight away for the reason of you being here, correct?” The Chasind didn’t answer for a long while, only spared one look at the two Wardens. “I know who you are. I was in Lothering when you ventured there. If only you could stay a little longer…” Amell suddenly got hit by the realisation.

 

“You’re a Templar.” “I was called Ser Tygell. Now I’m a Templar no more.” the man corrected him. “I was at the Chantry, and tried to protect people who fled there, but one man can only do so much…” Anders scoffed and turned away. Amell glanced at him disapprovingly, then turned back to the prisoner. “What do you mean? What happened?” “The Revered Mother and the sisters left with whatever they could salvage with the help of some of the townsfolk. The Templars stayed behind, and got slaughtered by the darkspawn, the few of us who in fact stayed and fought.” after a short pause the man continued his tale. “I left the Order after Lothering. I wandered aimlessly, and ended up first in Denerim, then here. And now I await my fate to be decided.” Amell was tapping one of his index fingers on the wall, indicating he was deep in thought. “I can show you a way out.” he said. “You can join the Grey Wardens. Find purpose again. We could use the help.” Anders couldn’t believe his ears and eyes. “You’re not serious, are you?” he asked then threw his hands up in the air and left. “Your friend doesn’t seem to agree with you.” the ex-Templar commented. “Too bad, because I happen to be his commanding officer. Not that he cares much.” Amell replied with a smile on his face. “Then why are you keep him around?” “Because he listens to me when it really matters.” This seemed to ease the dark-skinned giant’s initial alertness. “So, what do you say?” Amell turned back at the Chasind after a short while. “I follow you. If you take me.” came the answer. “And it doesn’t really bother you that your commander will be a mage?” The Chasind shrugged indifferently. “You two can be maleficarum for all I care. I’m no longer bound by my oath to the Chantry. They pretty much showed me how much they hold themselves to their empty words.” Amell’s blade-lips curled up. “Good.”

 

* * *

 

 

Anders was waiting for him with the other recruits. He eyed the elf – Darrian – suspiciously. He seemed to have a huge chip on his shoulder, but Anders couldn’t really blame him. After all, he would gut the bastard who’d ruin his wedding and rape his sister as well. Elora was all but invisible, and only made her presence known when Amell returned with the ex-Templar. Anders’s eyes shot lightnings. “I guess we’re done here.” Amell said, gesturing towards the recruits to move. As they went back to the Vigil – now reunited with Nate and the dwarves – Anders couldn’t help himself and commented “Now we’re taking Templars. We must be very desperate.” Amell groaned and rubbed his nose-bridge. “Please not now. Not here. I know what you’re thinking, but I can explain it to you. When we get back to my quarters. Just trust me with this one!” Anders snorted and shook his head. “Fine.”

 

The preparations for the Joining took all night and even after going through with it, three of the recruits never got up. Elora, Tygell and Darrian were alive though in bad shape. Anders spent a long time with them at the infirmary, but he eventually went back to Amell’s quarters. “I’m here.” he greeted his lover after he closed the door. “Your elves are fine, but I’m sure they’ll raid the larder as soon as they’ll wake up.” Amell nodded, not looking at Anders. “Care to explain to me why we push our luck with getting yet another templar into our ranks?” the healer asked while he started massaging the commander’s shoulders and neck. Amell let out a delighted purr and leaned back into Anders’ arms. “It’s about Rolan.” he said, not really explaining anything. “Yes? Really? I’d never figure out myself that much.” Anders quipped. “No, you don’t get it.” Amell furrowed his brow. “Tygell hates the Chantry, resents it as much as we do. Rolan is a zealot. The two of them won’t get along well, I’m sure about that.” Anders hummed in amusement. “When did you develop such a devious mindset?” Amell grinned at him, his bright blue eyes still cold as mid-winter night. “Did I tell you that I had an affair with a Witch of the Wilds?” Anders slapped him over his head. “A few times.” Amell chuckled while he corrected his ruined ponytail. “Are you sure it will turn out in our favour?” Anders worried. “I had bad vibes around the Orlesians, but now that we have Templars I seriously start to have bad flashbacks of Kinloch Hold.” Amell went over to him, wrapping his arms around the other man’s waist. “Don’t worry. If they sent Rolan to watch you, I’ll sic Tygell on Rolan to watch him. We’ll be safe.” Anders frowned. “I really hope you’re right, love.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back with these damn Notes again. Ha!
> 
> \- So... I decided to give myself some time and upload everything until the part I was at when this whole idea of shortening chapters and doing some minor editing came.  
> I'm nearly through with the next chapter, so I think I can schedule a steady by-weekly uploading, but it all depends on my job and scarce free-time. I also see that the story might not be everyone's cup of tea, and I'm fine with that. I'm done apologising, and I write it mainly for myself and the few friends who might want to read it. 
> 
> \- Also, I forgot to set the disclaimer in the first few chapters of this fic, so I put it here: I'm not a native English speaker, so any wonky wording or repetitive use of a phrase, or manner of speaking is due to that. I try my best to evade repetition as much as I can though, so keep it mind pls, tyvm.


	16. Missteps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back again, and a huge thank-you for keeping up with the fic, you're the reason I keep going!
> 
> And forgive me for the in-game scenes and lines, but it couldn't be avoided. The chapter also contains a good amount of fluff among many things, but no serious warnings go for this time. (in case you have found something triggering, please let me know, so I can update the warnings. Thanks!)

_“...It’s the rule that you live by and die for_

_It’s the one thing you cannot deny_

_Even though you don’t know what the price is, it is justified_

_So much more that you’ve got now to fight for_

_But it still doesn’t change who you are_

_There is no fear you will ever give in to, you’re untouchable_

_‘Cause you’re losing your mind_

_And you’re sleeping with wide open eyes...” – “Where is the edge” – Within Temptation_

 

 

That morning was much like the rest in Vigil’s Keep. People going about their business, Master Wade complaining about the cold, the dwarves working on the fortification – or rather, re-building – of the keep’s outer walls. Everyone did what they had to. Just like any other day.

That particular morning however turned into something else, as the small company of Wardens appeared in the courtyard, freshly out of the barracks, four men carrying a loud and objecting dwarf.

“I’ll have your heads for that, you hear me?” Oghren yelled from the clutches of Nathaniel, Darrian, Tygell and Anders, all of them dragging their rather smelly hostage towards the well. Elora and Sigrun walked behind them casually. “You stink!” the elf girl yelled back. “You can have all of our heads right after you took a bath!” She barely finished her words as Sigrun drew water from the well, pouring it into one of the troughs reserved for the horses. The four wardens threw the dwarf into the water, -Anders trying to warm it with a fire spell only to light the trough ablaze – and proceeded to scrub the dirt, grease and various substances of dubious nature off of Oghren. “Look at the bright side, you’ll have clean clothes as well!” Anders jested, earning a splash of dirty water in his face. They needed all of Tygell and Nathaniel’s combined strength to be able to hold Oghren, then all of their collective speed to be able to get away from the berserker when they were done with cleaning him. “Why are you coming after me?” Anders yelled indignantly while running as fast as he could. He got no real answer from the angry dwarf, but running up the stairs saved him from getting eviscerated. “It was Elora’s idea anyway…” he panted, getting a slap over his head by said elven maiden. “Ow! What was that for?” Elora huffed and provided an answer “Not like any of you were objecting… Well, not counting Oghren, of course.”

 

Said dwarf still rained obscenities and death-threats on all of them until he ran out of breath. That followed by him rolling over in the dirt and disappearing in the cantina, probably to drink enough ale to knock a bronto out and get his distinctive smell back. Elora hid her face in her palm, while Anders laughed. Nathaniel and Darrian watched Oghren from the battlements, the elf comparing the dwarf to an indignant mabari, and even the archer showed one of his rare smiles. The rest of the morning went by with no incident, well other than Oghren’s various forms of attempted retaliation for the indignity he had to suffer at his comrades’ hands. And sponges. Elora and Sigrun were lucky, they only got the tasteless jokes, while Darrian got “accidentally” tripped and fell into the same trough they washed the dwarf that morning. Tygell had his breakfast spoiled and Anders got pestered by endless insults he tried hard to riposte with something similar, to no avail. “Don’t play with fire if you don’t want to get burned, son!” Oghren sneered after a particularly nasty joke that left Anders speechless. “And how come you just sit there all calm while the world burns around you?” the mage turned to Nathaniel after the dwarf left with a smug smile on his hairy face. “I can shoot arrows with high precision from a great distance.” The archer stated confidently. “Also, I called the Commander.” Anders snorted. “Huh. Makes sense.”

 

* * *

 

 

They learned about the upcoming party that day. Amell wasn’t happy the least, the preparations and everything rather felt like a chore to him. Sigrun and Elora on the contrary, couldn’t be much happier. Neither of them had been at a ball before, and even if it was a formal event, they could barely wait until nightfall. “Bah. Nobles.” Oghren snorted. Nathaniel went to help the Commander and Constable Chavel with all the necessary tasks while Anders decided it was the perfect day for skipping work at the infirmary. Hardly anyone was injured or sick anyway. Despite being well into Harvestmere, the weather was still warm by day, so Anders went out the keep to the tree he and Amell sat and talked under a few weeks back. The old oak’s canopy was golden and rust, leaves falling whenever a breeze swept through it. The mage sat down and leaned to the thick bark of the oak, closing his eyes and listening to the wind for a moment. He heard footsteps and the rustle of grass as someone sat down beside him.

 

“A beautiful day today isn’t it?” Elora asked and Anders opened his eyes. “If you don’t count getting nearly killed by an angry dwarf, then yes it is a beautiful day.” The elf smiled at him then followed his example, closing her eyes and let the sun’s tame autumn rays warm her face. After a short pause Anders shifted and turned towards Elora. “Hey… I’m really sorry about your friend.” She opened her eyes and looked at the man sorrowfully. “Thank you… I’ve been thinking about Flavius every now and then.” Anders’ heart sank. “It might be not much to go on, but maybe he’s still alive. Maybe he’s in the Circle.” he went on, just to say something. “But I doubt that it’s any consolation, knowing the place.” Elora turned her face towards him. “You escaped.” she stated “Maybe he will too someday.” Anders made a wan smile, looking down at the grass and the lone ladybug trying to make its way to safety before winter comes. “He was the first human that didn’t treat me like garbage.” Elora sighed. “And ironically, he was from a country where people – mostly my people – are traded like chattel.” She hugged her knees and stared at the distance, maybe looking for a familiar figure in dark robes on the highway. “I take it your life in the arsehole of fair Denerim wasn’t much of a fun ride so far.” Anders inserted his voice into Elora’s melancholic thoughts, prompting the elf to laugh somewhat bitterly. “I could write volumes on that. We talk about it with Darrian a lot. Poor soul. He’s lucky to be here to be honest.” This was Anders’ turn to laugh bitterly.

 

“My dear lady, none of us is lucky. We are the unlucky ones, tasked with something far greater than any of us, and nobody asks if we want it or what are we feeling about it. Nobody cares until we’re here and fight the darkspawn so they don’t have to. Still, it’s a step up from the Circle for me, and I reckon it’s also a step up from the Alienage.” Elora nodded her head and looked at the mage again. For a long while in the short time she knew him, she thought him an air-headed prettyboy, whose life revolved around cats and cherry pies and his own ego. It was only a scratch of the surface however. The more she spoke with him, the more cracks she discovered on the cheerful mask the blond man wore. There was something broken in him that seemed irreparable. His rather strident way of announcing his opinions whether someone asked it or not, was a sign for Elora about his perceived -or probably very real- sense of powerlessness over his own situation, his constant jokes and silly comments the intricate porcelain mask he put above it all.

 

And she saw the same in their commander. The two men had some small differences, but an alarming amount of similarities. Coming from the same place it was hardly a surprise, yet Elora had a feeling of discomfort when she thought about the Circle, and its effects on the people it contains, regardless if their ears were pointy or round. Mostly because all of her life she thought that nothing could be worse than living in an Alienage. If she could have a say in it, she’d gladly let the darkspawn consume all of Denerim, and all of Ferelden for what she cared. But she indeed cared. About the elves, her family and friends and all the others that came into her life as soon as she got on board that particular ship. She didn’t notice her tears falling, only when she felt Anders wiping them off her face. “I’m sorry.” he repeated “I wish I could find him somehow and bring him back to you. But I can’t.” Elora gathered her strength and forced a smile on her lips. “It’s the thought that counts, as they say.”

 

* * *

 

 

Later they found Darrian sitting on top of the battlements, looking down at Dworkin and Voldrik as they argued about explosives and their use inside the keep. “How’s your day going?” Anders asked casually while Darrian stood up and leaned to the wall. “It could use some improvement.” the elf shrugged. “But I see you two got some time to chat.” Elora went red and mumbled something under her nose, but none of her conversation partners seemed to notice. “Well, until either Amell or the Orlesians tell us to do something, we have a day off.” Anders shrugged. “You mean we’re free to be bored out of our minds?” Darrian gave a crooked grin. “You could join us anytime.” Anders leaned to the wall next to the warrior. “And disturb you lovebirds’ cooing? Perish the thought!” the elf waved his hand dramatically. “You are aware that we’re actually only friends, right?” Elora inserted. Darrian laughed. “Come on, I know Anders and the Warden-Commander has something going on, and neither of them is your type…” Anders made a false-indignant gasp and put his hand on his heart. “I am wounded. And betrayed. I shall go and cry a river into Oghren’s pillow.” Both elves laughed. “I wouldn’t recommend it after today morning.” Darrian commented. “Well, I wouldn’t want to ruin my own.” Anders riposted.

 

Elora leaned to the wall next to them and poked around in the dirt with the nose of her boot musing “Actually, I think the Commander is handsome.” seeing both Anders and Darrian’s sneers she added “Don’t tell him though!” “Aren’t you aiming a little too high?” the warrior teased. “Oh, shut it Darrian!” Elora shoved him “If we’re so into picking on each other for who we find attractive, may I remind you that you confessed to me your enormous crush on the man who just happens to stand next to you now?” Anders raised a brow “When did that happen?” he inserted “Just today, before I went out to sit with you under the tree.” Elora stated. “Hey, it’s not fair!” Darrian objected. “It’s not like…” he trailed off, visibly uncomfortable. “It’s okay.” Anders patted him on the back. “I don’t find it offensive if someone thinks I’m cute anyway.” “Except it’s not healthy to announce that you find a human attractive if you’re an elf.” Darrian answered. “It can get you into trouble.” Anders chuckled. “Believe me, it can get you into trouble even if you’re human.” Darrian cocked his head and stared at Anders amusedly. “Well in that case, you’re cute. And I’m a sucker for blondes, so that’s a bonus.” the healer smiled and turned back towards the main building of the Vigil. “So…” he broke the silence after a long pause “What are your plans tonight?” Darrian chuckled “Why, are you asking me on a date?”

 

“I’m asking both of you on a date. And Sigrun too. Oghren and Tygell will also be there, but I don’t want to risk my physical well-being by going over to them and talk.” “I’m curious about what it will be like…” Elora confessed. “I never attended a ball or something like that in my life.” Darrian shrugged “It’s sort-of like any other party people have. Only more pretentious. And with less brawling. It has nobles after all.” “And Orlesians.” Anders added. “You know, I always wanted to visit Orlais. Now that these folks are here, I’m reminded of this childhood wish… And want to slap myself for it.” “Why?” Elora asked. “It’s just… stupid.” Anders shrugged. “Well, if the Commander didn’t play us for fools, we’ll have the opportunity to go wherever we have to go to battle darkspawn.” Darrian added. “That could be Orlais. Or the Anderfels. Or wherever.” They turned back towards the courtyard in silence, watching the working dwarves and trying to ignore the foreboding feeling that mixed into anticipation.

 

* * *

 

That evening saw a number of carriages and horses arriving to the Keep, all filled with the former vassals of the late arl, now coming to give their oaths of fealty to the new one. Not an uncommon thing, but Amell had a bad feeling about it all. He tried to stall the process as long as he could, but Seneschal Varel eventually succeeded in persuading him to send the messengers and hold the party. It wasn’t anything big like someone would expect from an arl, but Nathaniel and Varel did a good job with organizing the event.

 

The elves and other servants worked hard to put the meals on the long tables and keep Oghren from the wine cellar. The procedure of hearing the oaths was so incredibly dull that Amell forgot even what the nobles were saying. He noticed of course the disapproving glances cast at his person, more precisely the volcanic aurum staff he carried now instead of Starfang, his longsword. He made no secret about what he was. Ever since he got wind of Rolan’s threats, Amell took every occasion to remind the former templar that his commanding officer is a mage. This kept him in check mostly. Chavel stood behind him on his right, not making any sound even when one of the Fereldan knights, who got a bit too much to drink began to yell bloody murder at the Orlesians, cursing them back to their own land. Amell had him thrown out quickly and effectively. He went back to converse with various nobles residing either in Amaranthine or the countryside, neither making any pause before asking the Wardens to station guards on their lands. Amell knew they are still undermanned, so he had to choose very carefully not to stretch himself too thin. He promised to think about both nobles’ claim, and eventually send a reply with reinforcements to them.

 

As soon as he was out of the crowd, he started looking for his companions. He found Elora and Sigrun next to a bookshelf, discussing a Nevarran romance novel, Nathaniel on his usual spot under his mother’s portrait, in conversation with a noblewoman Amell recalled from earlier, but couldn’t quite remember the name of and Oghren under the cask of ale. Darrian stood and eyed the crowd stoically, like a statue. One of the younger nobles poked him just to see if he’s real, making the elf glare daggers at her direction. Amell spoke to the warrior before everything could go up in flames. “How are you holding up?” Darrian turned his piercing gaze from the nobles to his commander. “Well what can I say? The last time I saw a human noble in the flesh and this close, it ended very badly.” Amell patted him on the shoulder. “Well, just imagine their distress then. Having to be nice to armed elves and mages.” Darrian laughed. “You’re right. It must be quite humiliating for some of them.” Amell let out a short chuckle. “And be glad that you’re free to ignore their very existence.” he left the elf then, looking for his lover, but found Tygell and Rolan silently watching over ambassador Cera and the small company of women she was talking with. Amell let them be, haunting the tables and small conversing flocks of people in hopes of finding a glimpse of golden hair or the glimmer of the firelight on a golden earring, but had no luck. He hoped Anders didn’t take advantage of the situation and fled into the night. He was still afraid of that even after these months of semi-officially being together. Something hit his arm and as he looked down, he saw a piece of crumpled paper, with a note on it reading “Turn around, you twit.” Amell smiled and turned towards a table behind the column row near the exit.

 

“Over here!” Anders called in a hushed voice, pulling Amell behind one of the pillars. “What is it?” the Warden-Commander inquired. “Well, I just thought you might want to know that some nobles here are quite chatty. And they chat about you.” Amell shrugged. “Hardly a surprise.” “They say a lot of nasty things. You know “grumble-grumble, filthy mage, grumble-grumble, we should do something about it, grumble-grumble.” At least that’s what I overheard accidentally while stalking Nate and the elf with the wine.” Amell pinched his nose bridge long before Anders was done talking. “Oh, I guess it must be good to be arl, right? All these social climbers who’d do anything just to get ahead…” Anders raised his cup to some noble who ignored him. Amell groaned. “Don’t even mention it… I have the mother of all headaches, and this Maker-damned party had barely begun.” Anders leaned closer and whispered into Amell’s ear “Meet me in your room if you got bored.” Amell laughed. “Have you no shame?” Anders’ crooked grin said as much as his “None whatsoever.” Amell pulled him close for a kiss before going back to mingle with the nobles of Amaranthine.

 

A lady-knight also approached him with some more hints of a brewing conspiracy, there was a great many people who would love to see the new arl dead and gone. Amell went to tell the news to Seneschal Varel, who apparently began to worry as much as Amell himself. “Sly one, that Ser Tamra. But if she indeed has proof of nobles conspiring against you, it could be useful.” “She’ll make herself a target if they find out that she knows about them.” Amell mused. “I have to find a way to keep her safe until she can gather enough evidence to call a court meeting.” Varel heaved a heavy sigh. “Ser, if you’d be so kind and hear me out, I have some suggestions. You won’t be happy to hear them though.”

 

* * *

 

 

Dawn was near when the party was finally over, but Amell excused himself a bit earlier. He went to his quarters to wash and spend some time with Anders – in case he was still awake. He brought a bottle of old wine and two glass cups, hoping to drink and be merry before duty calls the next day. As he opened the heavy wooden door to his room, he heard faint snoring and soft purring, and a smile spread across his face. Anders was asleep, half under the cover, his hand on Ser Pounce-a-Lot’s back. The cat occupied Amell’s pillow, and planned to annex Anders’ as well with his hind legs passing over onto it. The Warden-Commander let out a low chuckle and put the bottle and glasses on the small table in front of a loveseat near the fireplace. He made himself a bath, heating the cold water with a fire spell and let himself sink under the surface. His hair floated around like silver seaweed, sticking onto his face and back as he emerged from below. Amell leaned back and took some time to relax. He didn’t want to think, only to feel the tension go out of his muscles. He closed his eyes and fell asleep, only waking up when he accidentally slipped and got underwater again. He washed himself and decided it’s time to go to bed.  

 

Anders woke up to the feeling of the mattress sinking as another body pressed it down next to him. “Oh, look at that!” he hummed. “A rare silver merman.” Amell laughed quietly as he scooted closer to Anders. “Maker, you’re cold. And wet.” the other man went on, but wrapped an arm around Amell’s waist. “And definitely naked.” “Do you have anything against it?” Amell raised his brow, but grinned as Anders rose up and pulled him over. “None whatsoever.” Amell smiled and leaned down to kiss Anders. If someone asked him only nearly a month ago, he’d be sure that there will never be another night they spend together. Yet Anders stayed after the first and the second and even the third time they shared a bed. He tried to help Amell get over his anxiety and fear, also to discover his likes and dislikes, and he did it without complain. Amell took it as another lesson to learn. He was good at learning things that interested him, and Anders was certainly among those. He still couldn’t get enough of him, the feeling of his skin heating up and getting soaked with sweat, the soft strands of his hair as Amell’s fingers tangled into them, and the sounds he made, the way he looked just on the brink of his climax, even the dirty mind he had. Amell has fallen hard and fast, and soon he found that there was few things Anders could ask that he wouldn’t do. Just one touch would be enough to melt him, one kiss to make him shudder with lust. And as they were lying in the dark, next to each other, Amell began to wonder just how long this dream will last...

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning found them tangled together, with a cat triumphantly stretching over both of their pillows. Anders was still asleep, but Amell lay awake for the better part of the dawn, listening to his lover’s heartbeat and slow, steady breathing, snuggled as close to the other man as possible. He still feared that one day when he opens his eyes, Anders will disappear. It wouldn’t be uncharacteristic of him after all. Amell thought back of the days in the Circle, those days when he was looking for Anders in vain, and the feeling of hope and loneliness he was well acquainted with hit him in the gut. There was a time when he attempted to focus his attention on his studies entirely, but that persistent thought of being left behind and discarded never truly left. Maybe that was the reason why he was so cautious with Jowan later. Thinking of his friend still felt like a twist with a blunt knife in Amell’s conscience. He should have known better, he should pay attention to his fellow apprentice and do more to keep him on the right track… but was it really the “right track”? Amell sighed and nestled his head against Anders’ collarbone. The memories from the Circle festered in his mind more than the darkspawn taint in his blood. To keep himself from growing more restless because of them, he tried to rail his train of thought into something else. Not having much to think about that didn’t involve past mistakes or future threats posed a problem though. Ser Pounce-a-Lot turned and put his entire weight onto the top of Amell’s head, purring loudly like he only wanted the wandering thoughts of the Warden to desist, clearing everything but the peaceful numbness of being half-asleep. Amell reached up and scratched the kitten, then wrapped his arm around Anders’ waist as he turned in his dream. Anders was more of an athlete from the two of them, and it wasn’t much of a surprise knowing he was on the run from Templars and swam Lake Calenhad to and fro more than once. Amell on the other hand was always skinny and brittle until he became a Grey Warden. He traced the lines and planes of his lover’s body idly, smiling to himself when Anders made a sound that strongly resembled a cat’s purring. “Isn’t it a tad early for another go?” he mumbled, making Amell chuckle. “Sorry if I woke you up, love.” he planted a kiss on Anders’ cheek. “Well, it’s done.” Anders shrugged and rubbed his eyes. “Did you even sleep?” he furrowed his brow as he looked at Amell. “A little.” the younger man admitted. “Nightmares. You know, just the usual.” Anders frowned. “You make it look like it’s nothing. I have horrible nightmares from time-to-time, but you said that it’s worse if someone went through the Joining during a Blight.” Amell caressed his face. “It’s nothing, really.” He was happy for the moment. Nothing else mattered much.

 

“Oh well.” Anders stretched and snuggled closer. Amell continued tracing his skin with his fingers, pointing at every freckle or birthmark- carefully avoiding any hickeys he might gave earlier – making his lover hum contentedly. Anders opened his eyes and raised a hand to turn Amell’s face towards his. “I’m connecting your dots.” Amell explained to Anders’ unspoken question. “My “dots”?” the blond raised a brow. “I have only scars.” Amell lowered his gaze back onto Anders’ body. “Are those scars from the Blight?” he heard Anders ask and he looked up again. “Some. Some others are from earlier.” Anders had enough of the tickly feeling of Amell’s fingers on him, so he turned them around and began to trace the younger man’s scars with his fingertips. “How does that feel?” he wanted to be petulant, but Amell just chuckled. “Tickles.” He had a lot of small, barely visible scars and impact wounds, but few were remarkable. “Did the Archdemon bite you?” Anders asked, pointing at scar tissue that resembled a giant bite mark. Amell laughed. “No. It didn’t. That’s a much smaller dragon’s bite. The one’s that was guarding the temple of Andraste’s sacred ashes.” “Nifty.” Anders wandered over to another mark. “And that one?” “Ogre.” Amell reached down and put his own hand on Anders’ over the old wound that nearly caused him to bleed out. “It pierced me through with its horn. And I also had several arrows lodged in my chest and leg in that particular order.” Anders’ face went blank. Amell told the story of all of his scars, visible and invisible alike, joking about them even. “You’ve been through a lot.” Anders managed to add earning a bemused look from Amell’s bright blue eyes. “I have half as much scars as you have, and I’m on the run for a long time.” Anders explained, but Amell just smiled at him, taking his hand. “I know most of your scars are invisible. Don’t think that it matters less, just because it cannot be seen.” Anders laughed, but his voice sounded like breaking glass. “Oh, I don’t think that. I’m proud of my invisible scars, you know. They make me the irresistible, broken human wreckage people love so much.” Amell kissed him lovingly. “Scars are reminders that whatever tried to kill you, failed. One small piece of wisdom from Enchanter Wynne I actually appreciated.”

 

* * *

 

Later that day Nathaniel and a small company composed of Anders, Elora, Sigrun and Oghren left the Keep to personally deliver a message to Amaranthine. The Commander planned a thorough search of the surrounding area for darkspawn on their way back. Anders kept on complaining the whole time, just to get a kick out of everyone’s frustration.

“…It was seneschal Varel’s idea.” Nate said defensively. “Sly old man, that one.” Anders shook his head. “So we’re going to play Templars now and raid the nobles’ families for dragging away their children or what?” “No, we only deliver the Warden-Commander’s message, that invites one member from each noble family of Amaranthine. And make sure they comply.” Nathaniel answered. Anders raised his brow. “He’s unbelievable…” They were treading on the road silently – well, mostly silently, for Elora was singing some song in elvish – and the dull light of the autumn sun and the uneventful nature of their trip began to bore everyone. “Hey, what is that tune?” Anders poked Elora, startling the little elf. “What? Oh, it’s a traditional Dalish song I learned from one of our crew-members. You know, before our ship sank.” “It sounds so beautiful!” Sigrun joined in the conversation. “What is it about?” Elora then sang the song again in the Trade tongue. Of course the rest of the party wanted to learn it and sang it for the remainder of the road-trip. “Maybe the darkspawn will hear you and we’ll have something to hit.” Oghren grumbled from the front row. “Other than high notes, I mean."

 

Making their way through the long deserted farmlands, they indeed found a band of darkspawn lurking around. The ogre which came to the hurlocks’ aid wore a makeshift armour tied together from various pieces of metal. Anders taunted the creature while Elora and Nathaniel rained arrows on it, Oghren and Sigrun being busy getting rid of the smaller ones. The ogre ran them over, throwing all three Wardens away like they were nothing but ragdolls. It reached down and picked Nathaniel up, and commenced to beat the archer to a pulp. Elora lost consciousness, she hit her head on a tree’s low branch when she hit the ground, while Anders fought himself to his feet. Oghren began to make his way towards the ogre, while Sigrun got overwhelmed by the remaining hurlocks. The world was spinning with the mage, and he fought to keep his balance while conjuring ice into his hand. “I’d run if I were you!” Anders yelled at the ogre, which stopped hitting Nathaniel for a few seconds before Winter’s Grasp gave it some frostbite. The darkspawn threw the archer to the ground – Anders couldn’t see if he was alive or dead – and began to stomp its way towards the annoying human that kept on hurling ice and insults at it. Anders was sure now is a good time to panic, and took a few steps back, not daring to turn around and really make a run for it. Some pebbles rolled under his feet and he fell on his back, the ogre towering over him, raising one leg to crush the mage like a bug. It won’t be long now…

 

Oghren just made his way through the band of hurlocks surrounding him and Sigrun, aiming for the armoured ogre, when the creature burst in flames, setting the scarce bush ablaze as it hit the ground. The two dwarves ran towards the burning corpse to find Anders slowly emerging with hands stretched out, trying to catch his breath. When it was sure that the ogre won’t rise again the mage rushed over to where Nathaniel lay, and checked his injuries. “Someone give me a poultice, quick!” he yelled and Sigrun rummaged through her backpack for one. “Here.” Anders didn’t even acknowledge them until he applied the healing salve and gave it a boost with his magic, and Nathaniel finally opened his eyes. “Hello, handsome!” the mage grinned. “I’m not paid enough for seeing your dumb face every time I wake up.” the archer replied and let himself be helped to his feet. “Screw you!” Anders laughed and turned towards the rest of their party. “Does anyone else need healing?” Sigrun pointed towards the trees where Elora fell. “Let’s see how she fares!” she turned and began to walk. Oghren and Nate stayed behind, looking out for more darkspawn. Anders followed Sigrun, deliberately ignoring the stinging feeling in his head and the dizziness that slowly made itself to a serious problem from a nuisance. They reached the tree and the elf lying still near its roots, and Sigrun ran to her wanting to pick Elora up. “Don’t…” Anders cautioned. “She might have broken her head or spine. It won’t be wise to move her around until I check.” Sigrun nodded and made room for Anders to plop down and quickly assess Elora’s injuries. “I might pass out if I heal her.” the mage turned his head to the dwarf. “Then what shall we do? I think I have one more potion in my pack, but that’s all.” Sigrun replied. Anders wanted to shake his head, but the dizziness just became worse. “I’ll cast a healing spell on her, and you take her back to the others. I need a rest.” Sigrun nodded, not really knowing what else might she do, and watched as the faint bluish-white light of the spell envelops the motionless elf in front of them.

Elora opened her eyes and sat, only slightly getting startled when Sigrun wrapped her arms around her neck. “We made it!” she exclaimed, helping the elf on her feet, and looking back at Anders, who leaned sideways supporting himself on the tree’s trunk. “Are you all right?” Elora questioned him with concern, but the man just waved his hand. “I’ll be fine. I just need to rest. Exhausted all mana.” He wasn’t fine, and he suspected something more serious than mana-exhaustion. But he didn’t want to scare the others.

 

* * *

 

Amell was busy with the Keep’s maintenance and his duty as the Arl of Amaranthine for days. He barely saw his friends and only got informed about Anders’ injury from a runner who saw the band of Wardens cross the courtyard, dragging the healer to the infirmary, where he refused to stay for longer than a day. He usually was sound asleep when Amell finally got back to their shared quarters, so he didn’t have a chance to ask Anders about what happened. Amell stayed awake and wrote his reports and replies to the nobles, organized the quarters for the quasi-hostages his Wardens and the Orlesians kept on escorting to the Keep, and fought his own bad feelings about it. When sleep finally claimed him he was so exhausted he didn’t even remember his own name. But at least the nightmares avoided him.

 

Constable Chavel was busy as well. While the Warden-Commander worked hard on earning the trust of the people and forced the nobility to obey, he and his men were tasked with gathering the hostages and making sure nobody does anything stupid. Chavel heard some nobles talking about the Commander at the party a few days back. They were outraged about the death of the former Arl, slain by none other than the current – which in itself wasn’t unheard of, especially in Orlais – but this usurper was a mage. An abomination in the eyes of the Maker. He and his consort probably had some diabolical plan to overthrow the Chantry, the country’s rightful rulers, even the order of nature, so it was up to good, Maker-fearing people to stop them before it was too late.  Chavel have seen it with his own eyes. The Warden-Commander treated lowly elves as equal. He treated peasants as equal. None of these groups would be seen or acknowledged as people in Orlais and as much as Chavel have gathered, neither in Ferelden. He himself has descended from a Chevalier’s family, and though his first and foremost duty bound him to the Grey Wardens, he couldn’t overcome the prejudice and practicality of his upbringing. Also his deep hatred and fear of mages. From the tales he heard about ancient Tevinter when he was a child, and the arrogance he saw in every action or every word of Warden-Commander Amell, he knew it will not lead to anything positive. And he knew he has to do something. The law was clear: no mage can ever own land or title, no mage is ever allowed to roam free from the Chantry or the templars’ supervision unless declared an apostate and hunted down. Yet here this Amell was. Best friend of the king. Arl of Amaranthine. Commander of the Grey. It was like a bad joke at the Maker’s expense.

 

It was time for them to escort one of Bann Esmerelle’s nieces to Vigil’s keep, and Chavel was as civilised and courtly as possible in a situation such as this one. He still felt repulsed by this action though he was no fool. Sometimes measures like this had to be made, to ensure the law is held. Chavel had to admit albeit grudgingly that the Warden-Commander might survive for a while playing the Game of Orlais. The young lady bearing a striking resemblance of her aunt had been helped onto the horse’s saddle by Rolan who chose to walk next to the steed not to overburden it, and Chavel was preparing to sit on his own horse and leave when the Bann invited him over. The Warden-Constable ordered his men to wait and went back to the mansion. Esmerelle turned and walked inside, looking back only once to make sure the Warden follows. She led Chavel to a drawing room, and closed the doors once they both were inside. “Milady?” Chavel permitted himself to break the etiquette and address the noblewoman before she indicated to engage in a conversation. “Dear Warden-Constable, how I pity you.” Bann Esmerelle turned towards the man, her features rigid as a statue. “To do the bidding of that horrible man. Know this: I bear no grudge against you or the Grey Wardens in general.” Chavel nodded his head. “Thank you, milady.”

 

Esmerelle smiled faintly. “You will not thank me when I tell you my proposal.” Chavel raised his brow. “What kind of proposal?” The Bann took a few steps towards the ornate window of the mansion. “Something needs to be done. This outrage should no longer be tolerated. The servant should not be allowed near his betters when his task is over.” Chavel scarcely believed his ears. “What are you talking about, milady?” “To put it simply” Esmerelle carried on “The Hero of Ferelden did his job. It is time for him to exit the stage, and be mourned and revered as a Hero should be.” Chavel felt his heart skip a beat. “Are you suggesting an assassination?” he prodded carefully. “Oh, perish the thought, Constable. Assassination is such a bad word. Besides, the last attempt ended somewhat unexpectedly.” Chavel heard the stories of an Antivan Crow travelling with the Warden-Commander the year prior he took over Vigil’s Keep, and supposed that the noblewoman was referring to this particular rumour. “What I suggest is a liberation of the people of Amaranthine of a ruler who is unfit for his task.” By “people” she meant the nobility, Chavel had no doubt. “And what do you suggest, who should do this noble deed?” he inquired, though he could barely keep his tone free of sarcasm. “You have people trained to fight against the so-called Hero’s ilk.” Esmerelle stated. “Use them. That way no one can put the blame onto you, and they are also expendable. Good heroic material, willing to sacrifice themselves for doing the work of the Maker.” Chavel instantly thought of Rolan and even Tygell. Not being sure about the latter’s loyalties, he already began to devise a plan. “I will see Arl Rendon Howe’s death avenged.” Bann Esmerelle stated with barely controlled wrath. “His murderer hanged, his treacherous son exiled back to the farthest end of the Free Marches, and the natural order of this arling restored.” her determination warmed Chavel’s heart, but also deeply disturbed him. “I’m counting on you, Warden-Constable.” Esmerelle added. “Help me, and you will be rewarded. I can pull some strings with the nobility, and write letters to the bumbling fool of a king in your favour.” Chavel nodded and turned to leave, but Esmerelle stopped him. “Fail me, and you will bear the consequences of a conspiracy against an Arl and the Kingdom of Ferelden.”

 

Chavel couldn’t chase her words from his thoughts on the way back to Vigil’s Keep. He knew he has to do something, and Bann Esmerelle’s cause was righteous. He knew what he wanted to do, but he needed the appropriate time. Until then, he needed to talk to Rolan about his plan. Tygell was deemed to be unworthy, for he had forsaken his duty as a Templar and his vow to the Maker. When they were finally behind the granite walls and the massive oak doors, Chavel waved Rolan over to him. “I need your secrecy my friend.” Chavel began. Rolan raised a brow, but otherwise gave no comment, waiting for his superior to continue. “It seems the Maker smiled upon us, and gave us a powerful ally. We only have to do a small task, that I reckon will be to your liking.” Chavel stated. Rolan only hummed in response. “I know both of us had enough of this circus that parades itself as the Grey Wardens of Ferelden, full of wild animals and clowns and freaks, staining the name of the Order.” Chavel went on, turning his back to the former Templar. “I need your help, ser Rolan. I need you to stay vigilant.” The Constable turned back. “And most importantly, I need you to not hesitate to strike when the right time comes.” Rolan didn’t seem to be impressed by the Constable’s speech. “Could you be a little bit more specific, ser?” he asked. Chavel went back to him, a bit too close for Rolan’s liking, but what he said next justified the sudden secrecy and whispering. “We will kill the Warden-Commander. When the right time comes, I want you to run him through.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:
> 
> \- As you see this one was pretty long, and I tried my best not to let it become too long. However I still can't find just the perfect chapter length, so be prepared for them being whimsically short or long. Tending to be long. 
> 
> \- As I think I already mentioned somewhere (maybe here and the note got deleted) I could very well do without any kind of sexual content in my fic, but it seems like the majority of people read fanfics for the smut (Prove me wrong, I dare you!). :/ Despite this, I decided to maybe lower the rating and probably leave the sex-scenes as it was here, sort of a "before" and an "after" scene, not willing to force myself through the writing. If you demand me, as a creator to respect your boundaries and triggers, please do the same.


	17. Sacrificial Lamb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back with another chapter and I'm so, so sorry for the long wait!
> 
> This one has warnings, dearests: Beware of assault, abuse, claustrophobia, really graphic and gruesome details of fighting with hostiles and major character injury. As usual, if you find anything else problematic for you, please let me know, so I can revise the warnings. Thanks in advance!

_„…Her breath began to speak_

_As she stood right in front of me_

_The colour of her eyes_

_Were the colour of insanity_

_Crushed beneath her wave_

_Like a ship, I could not reach her shore_

_We're all just dancers on the Devil's Dance Floor…” – „The Devil’s Dance Floor”- Flogging Molly_

 

Elora had a bad feeling as she treaded the halls leading to the stairs. She heard a faint cry from nearby and decided to investigate. She saw Rolan storming down the staircase and out to the courtyard, so she waited until he was out of hearing range before calling out to the darkness in the corner. “Hello? Is someone there?” She got no answer only a sudden flash of blue light illuminating the place, and Anders. He was healing a bruise on his face, his lower lip was broken, a thin trail of blood streaming down his chin. “What did he do?” Elora asked on an icy tone, despite the obvious signs. Anders finished healing his face and shook his head. “Never mind, sweetheart. I had worse.” Elora patted his arm. “Come with me, let’s check your backpack. The rest of the expedition team are waiting out in the courtyard.” Anders nodded. “Lead the way.” He knew she wanted him to come along and check the backpacks again for the hundredth time so if anyone tries anything again, there will be a witness. It hit Anders in the gut, because some mages did the same in the Circle, going everywhere in flocks so no lone Templar gets the wrong idea.

Elora kept her hand on the small of his back, leading him down the stairs, out to the courtyard and he saw Sigrun’s questioning gaze as they approached her near the pile of supplies. “Keep an eye on Rolan.” Elora warned her. “Why? What did he do?” the dwarf inquired. Elora nudged her head towards the mage. “He gave Anders a black eye and a bruised lip.” Sigrun’s brows ran up for a moment before her tattooed face turned to a mask of disgust and rage. “Come now ladies, no need to get all motherly and protective over me.” Anders tried to ease the situation with a laugh. “I got beaten up by Templars ever since I was twelve. No big deal.” Sigrun’s expression softened but her voice was still cold. “Rolan is no longer a Templar. He’s a Warden, same as you are. If he forgets this, then he does not belong. Even the Commander told him as such.” Anders shrugged. “Rolan will never listen to Amell. No matter what, he’s only another mage to him.” Elora nudged Anders “Why did he even attack you in the first place? Did he say something?” “Oh, he did.” Anders nodded. “You know, just the usual. Learn to know my place, I’m no better than garbage, et cetera.” “The Commander needs to know about this.” Elora sighed. “He’ll tear Rolan a new one I’m sure.” Anders cocked his head to the side, glancing over to the rest of the expedition gathering their supplies and weapons. “But I don’t think it will change anything.” he concluded. Darrian and Tygell approached them, the small clique of Amell’s Wardens segregating from the Orlesians. “Rolan is up to no good.” Sigrun grumbled under her nose. “Tell me something I don’t know.” Darrian answered.

 

* * *

 

It was like this for weeks now. Ever since the Orlesian Wardens escorted the last one of the Keep’s “guests” inside. Chavel reported to Warden-Commander Amell about a large group of darkspawn being spotted near Amaranthine, and smaller groups all around the farmlands, and the reports came in no matter how many times Amell and his trusted company ventured out to cull their numbers. It was time to take more serious measures. Amell put an expedition together on Chavel’s suggestion. It seemed like the first reasonable request he got in ages. One or several more broodmothers still hid under their feet, and the Warden-Commander was determined to root them out. Chavel suggested to break up the Wardens into smaller parties, appointing Rolan as the leader of a squad composed of Anders, Elora, a battle-worn warrior by the name of Gerod, and two scouts. Sigrun ended up in another squad with Oghren, Darrian and Tygell went with the third. Nathaniel stayed behind with Amell and helped with hunting the darkspawn raiding parties, Chavel and a few of the Orlesians were tasked with patrolling the road to Amaranthine, looking for any kind of threat. Seemed like the dwarven siege-engine worked flawlessly.

Yet, somewhere in the back of his mind, Amell was concerned. Not only about Anders this time, though he certainly occupied his worried thoughts a lot, but for the alarming pattern he thought to see in which Chavel’s Wardens outnumbered his in each raiding party sent to the Deep Roads. More than that, the ever-frequent clashes between Anders and Rolan, or Darrian, Elora and the other Wardens. Even Seneschal Varel took notice and advised Amell on cracking down on them to stifle any dissent.

 

He didn’t. And as he watched them marching out from the gates of the Vigil squad by squad, Amell felt a pang of guilt and doubt. He should have done something, rearrange the Wardens so his own were one group against the others, but then again they were on the same side… Or Amell thought he has to see it this way until something proves otherwise. He missed his old friends and their insightful advice in matters that… well, mattered. Now he was on his own, and the more time passed, the less Amell was sure in his own judgement. He turned away from the window, and sat down to his desk, staring at a sheet of blank vellum. “How did you manage all of this?” he asked, and tried to remember his old commander Duncan’s face. It was too long ago, and Amell found that he barely remembers anything about the man who freed him from the gilded cage he lived in for the better part of his life.

 

In the end, he didn’t go with Alistair to Highever to have a proper funeral for Duncan. Both of them wanted to, but had other obligations, and Amell wondered if he should write a letter to the king and ask him for a small portion of his free time, to put a ghost to rest. He almost took the quill to begin penning the letter down, when he heard a knock on his door, and Nathaniel stepped inside. “You called for me…” the archer began, and Amell stood up, nodding. “We’re going out to the farmlands to talk with lord Eddelbrek. I would feel much better if you’d accompany me this time.” Nathaniel’s steel grey eyes pierced through the thin veil of confidence Amell brought up around himself. “Something’s wrong.” Howe stated and not asked, and Amell found relief in the fact that he doesn’t have to act otherwise anymore. “Correct.” he grumbled. “Although, it’s barely more than a few feelings and facts I might read too much into.” “I am aware of the tension between our senior members and the Orlesian wardens.” Nathaniel leaned to the wall, crossing his arms in front of the griffon on his chest-piece. “And I’m also aware that keeping a hostage from every noble family in Amaranthine didn’t exactly make you popular, commander. Chavel wants to use it to his own advantage, and Maker only knows what he planned behind your back…” Amell wasn’t surprised, but it was also good to know that he wasn’t going paranoid. “Well, I guess we will find out eventually. Until then, you’ll be my eyes behind my back.” Nathaniel permitted himself a short-lived smile. “Certainly.”  

 

* * *

 

 

The discussion with lord Eddelbrek was strained and laden with suspicion, and it left Amell drained, more so than if he’d kept on casting spells until collapsing. The old man took Amell’s decision to send soldiers to defend the city of Amaranthine instead of the farmlands pretty badly, and no amount of patrols or nice words could make it right. No farmer made the wardens feel welcome, and it boiled into an outright hostage-situation, shortly after leaving the Eddelbrek estate.

 

Chavel suggested to spend the night in one of the farmholds instead on the road, and Amell agreed. On one hand he wanted to protect the people living outside of the city as much as anyone else, and on the other, he thought they’d be at least able to warn the residents of any darkspawn threat if they’d be nearby. Their small party was consisted by Amell, Nathaniel, Chavel, and three Orlesian wardens by the names of Gascard, Arnaud and Nicolette. Amell found that if it weren’t for Chavel’s presence, he’d found the latter three quite pleasant company. Gascard was a cutpurse in Val Chevin before Warden-Commander Clarel recruited him, Arnaud was accused of murder and Nicolette was a prostitute. The six of them found refuge on a ranch, much like the unfortunate Turnoble estate, way on the outskirts of the farmlands near Amaranthine. The family living there refused to flee and leave everything they have been working for their entire lives to the darkspawn taint and the occasional looters. They were a hardy people, even the smallest child worked on the field during the day, and they locked themselves up for the night.

Sadly, hardiness meant stubbornness as well in their case, and they didn’t want to let the wardens in at first. Amell negotiated with them, to have at least the barn for themselves to sleep in until morning. Eventually, the children became too curious, and the small company of wardens found themselves inside the house, sitting around the table with the Jamesons. Ma Jameson eyed Amell suspiciously all the time, while her children harassed the rest of the company for interesting stories and tales of their lives in Orlais. It seemed like Gascard and Nicolette were content in entertaining the little ones, so Amell let them. Nathaniel excused himself from the company and went outside, to look for potential threats, and so did Chavel taking Arnaud with him, and leaving the Warden-Commander to stand his ground between the suspicious and hard stares of the elder children and the adult members of the family. Conversation was pleasant, if scarce until the topics of magic and religion came up. “Do you believe in the Maker, Commander?” Pa Jameson asked out of the blue. Amell knew he’s treading on thin ice. “Of course.” he lied. “Then you know that this is a sign of His dissatisfaction with us. The end times are here, and the darkspawn will take all of us!” Amell didn’t have enough fingers and toes to count how many times he heard this during the Blight. “No, they won’t. That’s why we’re here.” he tried to reassure the Jamesons, but the old man shook his head. “No, you can’t stop it once it began. It is there in the prophecies, the end will come when the land opens up and the dead walk among the living. The creatures of the Void run free and mages rule over the good folk once again.” Amell hid his face in his palm. “I’m not sure I read the same Chant of Light you did.” he added aridly. What he heard next made his blood freeze in his veins. “How can you not see when you bear the signs? You are one of them, and you sit on a throne you aren’t supposed to.” it was the eldest son, Amell forgot the given name of. “Jory, stop!” Ma Jameson scolded her son. “Do not anger the Commander.” _He might turn us into toads_ Amell couldn’t help but hear attached after the sentence. He also felt a pang in his heart. He knew a Jory once…

“The lamb and the ale were delicious, Mrs Jameson.” Amell pressed out, trying to keep his voice calm and unthreatening. “But I think it’s time for me and my men to retire.” he raised his volume a bit, so Gascard and Nicolette also heard him. The pair instantly left the smaller children and joined their commander. “You lot can stay in the guest room.” Pa Jameson grumbled and left. Nicolette raised her brow and turned to Amell. “They ‘ave a guest room?”

 

* * *

 

Darrian looked around and saw a lurking genlock too close to their five-men company than he would like. He twisted the blade in his right hand as he always did before fighting, and signalled to Tygell. The ex-templar closed in on the elf, peeking out from the same blighted piece of rock, and nodded. Not a moment later they were on the genlock, and saw the others coming as well. The party’s mage, a fellow elf by the name of Elyon - and whom towards Darrian began to form a sort-of affection - beside the two scouts Leonie and Ghyslain, the former raining fire and the latter two hailing arrows at the ever-growing darkspawn horde. They made quick work of them, and went forward, never stopping for more than a few minutes to let Elyon gather enough strength and mana to be able to cast his spells. Tygell remained so silent Darrian forgot that he’s not actually mute so it took him by surprise when the Chasind finally addressed him. “They are not your friends.” “And lo, it speaks.” Darrian snapped back, but took a glance behind his back. The Orlesians were a tight-knit group, only Elyon seemed to be out of place between them. This was the reason why Darrian took interest in him in the first place. The fragile, blond elf with a nose just as pointy as his ears treaded the blight-infested road at the back of the raiding party, slightly shuddering with every unexpected noise. Darrian hoped he won’t become a liability. Tygell went back to the rest of them, ordering them to move on, so Darrian took the opportunity to chat with Elyon at the back for a while until the next group of darkspawn.

 

Sigrun and Oghren wasn’t having such a pleasant time – well, they were having even better if you’d ask them – they were surrounded by hurlocks and a few emissaries, and their company had no mage with them. Two more rogues and a slightly less-skilled warrior than Oghren made their raiding party. They lost the two rogues pretty quickly, no matter how hard both dwarf wardens fought. The terrain was against them, not to mention the slime dripping from the walls in that cavern. The remaining Orlesian got under a patch, and the drop landing on his shoulder ended up burning its way through his armour, skin, bones and even the stone under him. Without a healer nearby, they could only bandage the useless arm of the warrior, and move on. “I don’t like this.” Oghren mumbled. “Not one sodding bit!” Sigrun nodded in agreement. “I wonder what were they thinking when they assigned a healer only to every two groups. Should we go and team up, or something?” Oghren shook his head. “Bah. We don’t even know where the rest of the wardens are.” Sigrun shrugged and put her daggers to their sheaths on her back. “I guess it will be like with the Legion then. We fight, we die.” The red-maned dwarf snorted and elbowed his way to the front line. “Speak for yourself, lass. Oghren won’t die in a pit that smells like a week-old carcass of a bronto.”

 

Elora could practically sense the tension Anders was radiating. The roads were so narrow on their route sometimes it was problematic for even her to get through. Anders was struggling to breathe more times than not, and he snapped at everyone for the slightest of reasons. He kept on turning his head and nearly tripping over himself. “Anders, what’s the matter?” she stopped the mage, risking losing sight of Rolan and the rest of their party. “This.” the man waved his hand around. “The dark, the smell, the walls being too close… Maker, I’m gonna barf…” He didn’t, for what Elora was grateful. She took his hand and began to pull him along. “Come on, just think about something else.” she suggested. Anders scoffed. “Like it’s that easy.” Elora sighed. “I know it’s not easy, but please try. How about kittens and cherry pies? Pretty girls? Whatever that eases your distress before you snap and run away into Maker knows where…” Anders tried to do what she asked. He closed his eyes and let himself be led through another narrow pathway. He tried to think of Ser Pounce-a-Lot, and the way he was playing with Amell’s quill or his hair, the pie they had at Sigrun’s Joining party. Or the swaying hips of the elf in front of him, sometimes replaced by Amell’s. It was distracting, but not enough to drive the feeling of impending doom away. Not to mention that Anders couldn’t concentrate on casting if he was horny, and thinking of Amell’s (or Elora’s) rear end made him horny. Thinking of pie made him hungry, and thinking of his cat left behind in Vigil’s keep made him sad, so he welcomed the panic-attack and the claustrophobia like an old friend. He wondered if he’s already dead, and this whole torture is just a sort-of punishment in the afterlife he has to endure before ascending to the Maker’s side…

 

* * *

 

 

Amell woke up and found himself tied to one of the columns in the cold basement. His clothes and weapons were missing; his captors didn’t really care about modesty. Amell tried to break his hands free in vain, taking note of the iron chains bounding them. He began to worry about Nathaniel and the rest of his company, for he didn’t see any of them around… It was strange, and dark. After a while, Amell heard whispers he couldn’t really make sense of, and his head began to hurt bad. Then a metal door opened and the Jamesons came in one-by-one. “You’re making a mistake.” Amell rasped with dry throat. “And the Maker cast them out of the Golden City, as its walls turned to black.” Pa Jameson recited from the Chant, and stepped closer. Amell only now noticed the sizeable hammer he was clutching. He went behind the column, and the Warden-Commander felt a sense of dread as the crazy old man’s sons circled him. “Magic exists to serve man, never to rule over him.” one of the children recited. “You have forgotten.” Jory, the eldest put a hand on Amell’s face, fingers too close to his eyes. “But fear not. We will make you remember.” Amell wanted to ask what he meant when he felt the blow of the hammer shattering the bones in his hand. The sensation was wrong though, Amell screamed more in fear than in pain. Everything was numb, muted… Only fear felt real. The fear of the head of the hammer breaking his hands to splinters, the too pointy fingers of Jory Jameson digging into his eye-sockets, the fear of being violated and beaten again, and being helpless and unable to do anything against it. Amell screamed and the faces of the Jamesons turned into masses of spiderlegs, their forms changing shape, and the basement disappearing into the floating plains and sickly greenish light of the Fade. Amell had no idea how can he still sense it while he was blind and broken, but he could. And as he lay there, sobbing and whining pathetically, he heard a voice. _“’Tis not broken, you oaf. You lay on it, same as you’re not blind, just your eyes are shut. Wake up!”_

 

He opened his eyes, and saw that he was indeed lying on his arm, making his hand uncomfortably numb, so he sat. “Ow.” Amell grumbled, and nearly shouted when he felt a hand on his back. “Is everything all right?” Nathaniel inquired. “I just had a bad dream.” Amell answered sheepishly. “Well, it might turn out to be real.” Howe stated grimly. “We’re trapped.” “What do you mean?” Amell asked, already standing up and checking the door. It was barricaded and locked. Chavel raised his head as Amell passed his bed, and the Commander leaned down to wake up Nicolette and Gascard, still tangled together under one blanket, and Arnaud, who was sleeping in the far end of the room. “Just what in Andraste’s name…” Chavel mused as he too tested the lock on the door. “I have no idea, and I don’t think Andraste has either.” Amell riposted, taking note of the heavy shutters of the window also being barred from the outside. “Did none of us stand guard?” he queried, just a little bit harshly. “My fault, Commander…” Nathaniel sighed. “I was guarding the room, but heard nothing, only when you began to toss-and-turn in your sleep.” Amell sighed and shook his head. “I can’t believe they locked us in a room and none of you heard a thing.” It sounded unreal. Unless the hosts put something in their ales or food, which made the party of battle-proven Grey Wardens sleep like one day old babies. “Nate, didn’t you feel that something was off with the ale or the lamb we had for dinner?” Amell asked, and all of them knew he was just grabbing at straws. “I didn’t feel anything odd, Commander. I would have told you otherwise.” came the answer. “It doesn’t matter people.” Chavel grumbled from the door’s vicinity. “We are trapped in a house full of mad Fereldans. No offense, Commander.”

 

* * *

 

Sigrun was positive they got lost. The poor sod that got his arm eaten by the slime fared badly, worse than if he’d got the Taint again. Oghren grumbled various curses under his beard, and practically carried the other warden on his back. But eventually there were only the two of them. They left the body of their departed comrade under a pile of rocks, looking sheepishly at one another. Sigrun never left the dwarven kingdom and the Deep Roads before, so she had absolutely no idea how to treat fallen humans. Oghren wasn’t too helpful either, the only thing that left him was a foul-smelling cloud that forced Sigrun to take the lead and almost run into the arms of a Hurlock.

 

Said creatures harassed Darrian’s party in great numbers, and they were losing against them, the elf had to admit. They barely had time to catch their breath since the last skirmish, and that made the wardens think that they are near the broodmothers’ lair. Leonie got injured, and she was unable to use her bow, so she resorted to her blades, Ghyslain covering her whenever it was necessary. Elyon caught up with Darrian and Tygell, visibly shaking from fear and exhaustion. Yet he kept on hitting every darkspawn than got too close, even when he completely ran out of mana. Darrian hoped that he will survive, for he planned to ask him on a date as soon as they get back to the Vigil. His moment of distraction gave room for a genlock to get close and cut him with his serrated blade, the black snot smeared on it causing the injury to burn as already infected. Darrian riposted with a double sweep of his twin-blades, and fell to his knees after killing the darkspawn. His vision became blurry and, for long minutes, he was only able to keep himself from falling over by leaning on his swords. The battle raged on around him, and sometimes it came back to haunt Darrian in his later years. A Hurlock Alpha’s jagged blade severing Leonie’s head from her neck, the body of the fallen warden taking a few steps forward, spraying blood everywhere before collapsing. Ghyslain’s cries as the spell of an emissary made him bleed from every orifice on his body, and Elyon was unable to help him. Darrian finally forced his legs to move and he caught Tygell, only the man was dead if the arrow lodged in one of his eyes was to believe. The darkspawn outnumbered them, and Darrian wasn’t paying attention. He knew they will pay the price. He saw Elyon as he ran towards him. He felt the other elf’s hand on his armour, and he let himself to be dragged away from the slaughter. Darrian was still in a haze long after they left the site of their brethren’s demise, holding Elyon close protectively. He sensed that something was wrong, and after Maker knows how long of running – or rather, quickly staggering – away from the horde, the two elves collapsed to the ground.

Elyon landed on top of Darrian, who would be happy for an occasion such as this if they were in an entirely different situation, but nevertheless he wrapped his arms around the much lighter frame of the mage. “Tell Sidona I’m sorry…” Darrian heard Elyon’s whisper in his ear, and felt as the other elf leans his head to his neck. “Tell her…” Darrian turned his head, and saw the blood streaming from Elyon’s mouth and the ever-growing red stain on the back of his robe. “No, you will tell her yourself.” he replied, and sat up, dragging Elyon with him. The hazy green eyes of the Orlesian warden met Darrian’s sea-blue for a moment, before Elyon leaning forward and giving Darrian the worst kiss of his life. He tasted of blood and taint, but Darrian returned it. It didn’t last long, before Elyon pulled away, caressing Darrian’s face and leaning his head on his silverite pauldron. “I wish we could have more time together, Darrian.” he sighed. “Me too.” the red-haired elf replied, holding Elyon close until his last breath left him.

 

This was how Rolan’s party found him.

 

* * *

 

 

The walls threatened to suffocate him as Anders struggled to keep his consciousness. Maker, he hated the Deep Roads. One thing he hated more than them were templars, and he had to put up with one of them as well. Rolan was getting worse with every passing hour, and Chavel’s decision to make him as the leader of the group didn’t help either. Darrian joined them after they found him still holding the corpse of that Orlesian mage, and Elora hugged him and cried for at least half an hour. Now both of them were exiled to the back row of the party, but Anders didn’t mind much. The elves were the only ones taking notice of his distress. “Are you all right?” Elora asked and got reprimanded for unnecessarily drawing attention on their company. Anders shook his head in answer. His claustrophobia tormented him even more as the caverns became smaller and narrower on their way. They even encountered a nest of darkspawn and he quickly depleted his mana reserve in the fight and healing the wounded afterwards. Rolan didn’t even suffer as much as a scratch. Anders sat down on the ground, trying to gather some strength to be able to move on, when he noticed the company of Wardens already moving forward. Rolan waited for everyone to clear out of the small cave and enter the tunnel leading to Maker-knows-where and stepped over to drag the mage up by his collar. “Pull yourself together!” he growled and shoved Anders into the tunnel where he bumped into Darrian. “Watch it!” the elf exclaimed, to Anders or Rolan no one could say. They went to clear the place, to prevent darkspawn from terrorizing the farmlands around Amaranthine any further. It sounded good until they realised that even their pretty big group of wardens was outnumbered by the infestation of creatures the remaining broodmothers spilled out in the short time they had to take care of other matters. Anders groaned and downed a lyrium potion. Winter’s Grasp. Blizzard. Heal a warden. Heal another one. Heal a whole group of them. Hex a Hurlock. Revive a fallen comrade and shoot lightning at the Ogre trying to trample them. Drink a potion. Repeat. Doing it for hours on end gave Anders a feeling when next time he answers Mother Nature’s call, the substance leaving his body will be blue. He was sure he began to grow lyrium crystals in his kidneys. And the battle raged on and on with no sign of the darkspawn ever faltering.

 

The group got separated into two packs and Anders lost sight of Darrian. He tried to keep at least Elora out of the fire as much as he could, the elf girl raining arrows at the darkspawn that came too close. Rolan was the one sticking with them and a few of the Orlesian wardens, all thinning their lines until the healer could no longer tell the difference between friend and foe. Anders’ head began to spin and his legs gave up, his whole body collapsing onto the filthy stone riddled with taint and blood. He heard a sound as his vision blurred and everything seemed to move in slow motion. It was like music. It came from the walls, from the ceiling, the floor, everywhere. It beckoned him, but he was unable to move, his whole body feeling like he was made of stone himself. His breathing slowed, as he was about to fall asleep. He only awakened for a short while feeling sharp pain in his back as a charging ogre threw him onto the wall. He saw Elora aiming a shot at it, and the rest of the still living wardens charge at the huge creature before Anders’ eyes closed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: This chapter basically wrote itself. I take no responsibilty.


End file.
